


A First Time For Everything

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Lestrade, Caring Lestrade, Demisexual Sherlock, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Healing, Insecure Sherlock, Kidnapping, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Protective Lestrade, Scared Sherlock, Sherlock & John BFFs, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Slow Build, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:17:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>ABANDONED!</strong>
</p><p>One single kiss leads to something neither Sherlock nor Greg had ever dreamed of having; the most unusual relationship London has ever seen. But Sherlock doesn't do feelings and Greg isn't a man without baggage himself. It takes everything - and a bit more - out of them to hold on to what they have together without breaking apart individually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kissing

** Kissing **

John, saint that he was, patiently listened to Sally Donovan's rant about his flatmate, inserting a sympathetic _'Oh, dear.'_ or a scandalised _'No!'_ at the appropriate points in the conversation in the hope of getting it over with as quickly as possible. He idly wondered, not for the first time, if the sergeant had some sort of secret crush on the detective and worked out her frustration over the obvious rejection by being an insufferable, snappy cow. Really, it did make a lot of sense, if one thought about it, for example-

"Sherlock, for fuck's sake!"

With a sigh and an apologetic smile directed at Sally, John turned just in time to see Sherlock stalk away around the corner and Greg throw up his hands in exasperation before following after the younger man, grumbling angrily under his breath.

"See? That's _exactly_ what I just told you! He _always_ does that!" Sally exclaimed, half triumphantly and half seriously irritated, grabbing John's sleeve to turn him back around, and launching into another tirade about Sherlock's completely and utterly inappropriate and insensitive behaviour at crime scenes.

John plastered a smile on his face and figured that, for once, Sherlock would simply have to suffer through Greg's scolding on his own. Maybe it would even do him some good.

* * *

"Sherlock!"

_"What?"_ the man in question growled and whirled around to glare at Lestrade - who was being really very unreasonable today - only to collide with the Inspector and stumble back over the kerb and lose his footing. A car honked, tires screeched and Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable crash.

Instead of the expected pain, however, he found himself pressed against the Detective Inspector's chest a mere moment later, strong hands grasping and fingers digging into his shoulders almost painfully.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, are you okay?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock, his eyes still pressed shut, suddenly realised how close the other man was by the warm breath ghosting over his face.

"Yes, fine." he croaked and when exactly had he curled his hands into the DI's jacket?

Lestrade made an unconvinced sound, shaking the detective lightly. "Look at me. Open your eyes."

Sherlock complied, albeit slowly, and risked a glance at the silver-haired man, who was looking at him worriedly, brows drawn together into a slight frown. Sherlock's first instinct was to reach out and smooth the wrinkles away with his fingers, or, preferably, his lips or-

"Absolutely fine." he insisted and took a step back, or at least tried to do so, but his body seemed to have stopped obeying him during the last minute or so. Bugger.

"You're acting really weird, you know, even by your standards." Lestrade informed him and tilted his head, one hand coming up to cup Sherlock's cheek and turn his face a bit more into the light to check his pupils. Old habits died hard, it seemed. "What's up with you lately?"

_'Oh, nothing, Inspector, I simply realised that I would very much enjoy to throwing you down on the nearest flat surface and having my wicked way with you. Which would be a disaster for our working relationship, given that most of your team, hell, the entire Yard, already hate me with a searing passion and my coming to your crime scenes isn't entirely legal in the first place. Imagine what your superiors would have to say about you buggering your consultant.'_

"Sherlock? You still with me, mate?"

_'My mind hasn't worked properly in weeks. You've invaded every single cell of my brain and made yourself at home there. I can't stop thinking about you: how your hair spikes up after you run your hands through it; how the middle and index fingers of your left hand start twitching whenever I push you over the brink; how you smile at my deductions even though you want to throttle me for insulting your incapable team of trained monkeys; how you look at me like I'm the most precious thing in the world; how you constantly worry about me; how I can see in the lines around your eyes how afraid you are that I'm going to leave again; how you never leave, no matter what unspeakable things I do; how-'_

"If you don't say something in the next twenty seconds, I'm gonna call John or an ambulance. Can you even hear me?"

_'This is why intelligent people should not engage in any sort of relationship, physical or emotional. They render you stupid, turn you into an embarrassing babbling mess. I don't do relationships, I don't do feelings. Why do you insist on staying? Why won't you get out of my head and leave me be? Why are you doing this to me? Why can't I stop you? Why am I falling-'_

"Sherlock!"

The curly-haired man shook himself and blinked. Lestrade let out a sigh of relief at seeing the detective come back to himself. Short-lived relief, as it turned out when Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"Lestrade, I-" he began, then cut himself off and groaned in frustration. With a jerk he dislodged the Detective's grip and made to turn, only to have Lestrade grab him again.

"Talk to me. Please?" There was a pleading edge to the man's voice, his eyes filled with honest concern. How in heaven's name was one supposed to resist the temptation of that...that... _adorableness?_

"Sod it." Sherlock said, determined, and put his hands on either side of Lestrade's face.

"Wha- _mmpf!_ "

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was kissing him. Quite passionately, in fact. Mind-blowingly terrific. Surprisingly gentle. Amazingly possessive. And Greg wasn't kissing back. _Oh god_ , he wasn't reciprocating and Sherlock was pulling away and that simply would not do.

With a growl, Greg chased Sherlock's retreating mouth and brought their lips back together. One hand found itself on the detective's waist, thumb stroking firm circles over a bony hip, the other was thrust into those ridiculously silky curls, letting them run between his fingers.

Sherlock gasped in surprise and Greg, deciding that daring was the way to go here, sucked the younger man's lower lip between his own and nipped playfully, earning himself a low and deliciously sexy moan that rumbled through their joined chests. And then he was pushed backwards, the two of them more stumbling than walking due to their apparent inability to stop touching, until his back hit the brick wall of a book shop. _Great_ , now he was snogging a bloke over a decade younger than him out in public, possibly in front of half of his team, and he couldn't bring himself to give one single, lousy _fuck_.

When they finally parted for air, Greg let his head fall back against the wall, panting in quick, shallow breaths that turned into some kind of desperate, needy sobs when Sherlock attacked his throat, sucking just above his wildly bobbing Adam's apple. He felt long, slender fingers sneak under his jacket and run over his chest, his sides, his belly and then settle on his hips, squeezing.

"This-" Greg tried, his voice failing him on account of stunningly handsome consulting detective currently nuzzling into his neck.

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted and came back up, tensing and sizing the DI up. Those impossible and usually cold, hard eyes were now filled with so much uncertainty and vulnerability that Greg stopped breathing for a moment, completely taken aback by the amount of raw and pure emotion in them.

"Come back here," he managed after a long moment and Sherlock practically melted against him and into their next kiss. This one was slow and tender, the 'exploring a new partner' and 'shit, this can never, ever end' kind of kiss which completely stole one's breath away. It took more self-control than Greg ever thought he'd have to keep his eyes open and watch. He brushed his fingertips over the blush on the younger man's cheeks, tracing them along his cheekbones and up over his brow and into his hair to curl around the dark strands and tug, gently but insistently directing Sherlock to tilt his head. Their noses brushed and Sherlock giggled - honest to God _giggled!_ \- against his lips and Greg honestly believed he was about to burst from the sheer, impossible amount of affection he felt for the infuriating genius in his arms.

Their partnership, for the lack of a more suitable term, had been strained ever since Sherlock had waltzed back into Greg's life two months ago - or, rather, broken into the man's flat in the middle of the night to demand a distraction, because he'd been so dreadfully bored and, oh yes, _'Hi there, I'm back from the dead!'_. Greg had shouted and thrown things until he'd been too exhausted to go on. Which was when he'd pulled Sherlock into a hug, told him how fucking glad he was to have him back and then promptly thrown him out.

There had been text messages, even a call or two, several visits to the Yard – only stopping once Greg had told them not to let the detective in anymore - nightly break-ins in his flat until the DI had snapped that yes, _fine_ , Sherlock could come work with him again if it stopped him bugging the older man on his time off. Believing your friend dead for two years, and Sherlock was his friend no matter what the idiot might say about that, and grieving for him couldn't just be forgotten. Leaving someone to blame himself for a friend's death and almost drowning in that guilt couldn't just be forgiven.

Oh, and it would have worked fine. All that 'only ever talking to Sherlock during cases and only about work stuff' thing Greg had been doing if it hadn't been for the DI's traitorous heart. Knowing Sherlock for nearly a decade, helping him give up the drugs and get his act together, rushing to his side every single time he'd relapsed, enduring him insulting his intelligence and the competence of his whole team, mourning him for years. And still Greg's heart gave a little flutter whenever Sherlock was near. Hiding his feelings for all this time in the belief that he would be brushed off in that arrogant way, be ridiculed and made fun of for his stupid little crush. Now Sherlock was here and, _holy shit_ , Greg could feel how much the younger man wanted him, the evidence pressing against his hip, hard and hot.

A sudden surge of _this can't be real_ caused him to tighten his hold on the detective and kiss him deeper, savouring and storing away every detail he could, because surely this was a onetime thing. Surely Sherlock wasn't _really_ interested in some washed-up, middle-aged, divorced cop who was growing greyer by the day and getting a bit softer around the middle, barely managing to get his arse up for a run every other week. Greg whimpered and clutched at the younger man, not wanting this, whatever spur of the moment thing it was, to end when it had only just begun. He didn't want to let go again so soon. He _needed_ to have more, just a little more before he got his heart broken beyond repair.

And then Sherlock pulled away again and, _fucking damn it_ , he'd cocked it up. But the curly-haired man licked his lips, eyes fixed on Greg's face, and smiled. "Greg," he whispered and moved in again. A gentle press of closed lips this time, lean fingers coming up to his face, carding through his hair and curling around it to keep him in place as if _Greg_ was the one who needed to be convinced to-

"Well, that's one way of relieving the tension."

Sherlock, startled, quickly stepped away. Under different circumstances, Greg would have laughed at the look on his face. At the moment, he suspected that he was actually sporting a rather similar expression. He leaned to the right, peering over the detective's shoulder and at a grinning John Watson, hands on his hips, tapping an impatient foot and all.

"John." Sherlock said dumbly, wincing at how husky he sounded and swiftly clearing his throat.

"Sherlock. Greg." John smirked, obviously enjoying the sight of two blushing, fidgeting and very uncomfortable men. The bastard. "Cab's here, in case you're still coming home tonight?"

"Of course I'll be coming home, where else would I go?" Sherlock snapped, back to his normal self, and straightened his coat, turning up the collar.

John held up his hands in defence, lips still twitching. "Just asking. I'll...yeah..." he trailed off and turned around, jogging back around the corner to where the taxi was waiting.

"Sherlock-" Greg started, realised he had no idea whatsoever what he was supposed to or even wanted to say and snapped his mouth shut again, letting the famous awkward silence settle over them.

Sherlock didn't turn around to face him. His back was rigid and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I'll email you my statement."

"O-okay. Sherlock, I-"

"Good night, Detective Inspector," the younger man said stiffly and walked off, leaving Greg to stare after him and feel like the biggest fucking idiot on the surface of the entire planet, standing in the middle of the sidewalk with a slightly painful erection and the dawning realisation that he was absolutely head over heels for a man who was so far out of his league that it wasn't even funny anymore.


	2. Comforting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without John Watson, England would fall. And Mycroft, well, he tries to help as well.

** Comforting **

Sherlock was left to his 'ridiculous sulk', as John called it, for three days; ignoring texts and calls, refusing to eat or shower or even leave his bed and burying himself under his quilt every time the former army doctor came to replace the still full plates and cold cups of tea, sighing and asking if, maybe, it would help to have a talk about it.

 _It._ It had been the most embarrassing and humiliating experience of Sherlock's life, counting the time Irene Adler had drugged him and that video of him slurring idiotic and completely silly deductions about a man in a bunny suit only he'd been able to see had made its way around the Yard. Worse than the evening in Dartmoor when he'd imagined a demon hound and made a fool of himself in front of John and a room full of diners. Hell, he would rather have Mycroft walk in on him exploring himself again than even think about _it._

But all attempts on deleting _it_ so far had been spectacularly unsuccessful. His mind had decided to put _it_ in a box labelled 'Gregory' and store that box in a specially created room with a sign reading 'Gregory' in a newly designed wing in his mind palace called 'Gregory'. No matter how many times he crushed, burned or tore apart that damned box and demolished, broke down or blew up that sodding wing, it all came back the next time he blinked his eyes. Every single time.

It was as if his own mind was taunting him. Dangling _it_ in front of his eyes to ridicule and torment and make him absolutely miserable for the rest of his life - which was definitely not overdramatising the situation, thank you very much.

On day four, John had obviously had quite enough of him and his behaviour, Sherlock realised, when the blonde stormed into his room, yanked open the curtains and flopped down on his bed beside him, positively radiating determination and having his jaw set in his _Captain_ Watson way. Sherlock knew when there was no point in arguing with John, so he sat up and accepted the glass of water. He sipped it slowly in order to hide just how famished and parched he really was. John was a doctor and would know anyway, but it was about the principle of the thing and the principle of the thing was to not let John know how famished and parched he really was.

"This has got to stop," John said, taking the empty glass back to deposit it on the nightstand. "You're being an idiot."

Sherlock sniffed haughtily and pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself. "My IQ would suggest that I am, in fact, the opposite of an idiot."

"Fine, you're just acting like one, then," the older man pointed out with a shrug. He pressed a hand to Sherlock's forehead to check his temperature, then pressed fingers into his wrist to measure his pulse, undeterred by the detective swatting at him and grumbling under his breath. Finally, he pinched the skin on the back of Sherlock's hand and watched it retreat much too slowly. "Did you drink anything the last three days?"

"I had a glass of water."

"Not counting the glass of water I just forced down your throat."

"You hardly forced it down my throat. I did manage to consume it by myse-"

John groaned and glared, ruffling a hand through his hair. "Stop being deliberately difficult and obtuse. And don't even think about protesting being called obtuse," he quickly added when Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, raising a stern eyebrow at the man-child next to him.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped and turned away from his friend and onto his side, pointedly staring at nothing in particular.

"You're blowing this way out of proportion, you know."

"And you, as usual, have no idea what you are talking about."

"Ah, insulting me again. Almost back to normal, I see," John teased and Sherlock was glad his back was turned, enabling him to hide the upward twitch of his lips. "And I think that, for once, I do actually know more about a topic than you do."

The detective snorted disagreeably. "Doubtful."

"Sherlock, things like that, they happen all the time between friends. A night out drinking, some emotional crisis, adrenaline from chasing a murder suspect. It doesn't have to be awkward, you know. I'm sure Greg won't say a thing about it. He still feels bad about circulating that video. It didn't mean anything."

Sherlock tensed involuntarily, and only for a second, but of course John chose that exact moment to be observant for once.

"Or did it?" the doctor ventured carefully, poking at Sherlock's ribs - the disadvantage of having been stitched together by the man on countless occasions; he knew most of the ticklish spots on Sherlock's body, even the one on the underside of his left hallux.

"Of course it didn't!" Sherlock sneered, hands clutching at the linen beneath him, crumpling up the soft fabric and turning his knuckles white. "The mere fact that you even consider the possibility that _it_ meant something is laughable, John! Your intelligence is suffering from the regular intercourse you get up to ever since your engagement. Which won't last, just so you know." The last part sounded childish and sulkily even to his own ears, which he would never admit out loud, but had to recognise as a telltale sign that John would definitely pick up on.

"Sherlock," the older man smiled understandingly, tugging at the detective's shoulder to turn him on his back. He tucked an errand curl behind Sherlock's ear, only wrinkling his nose a tiny bit at the filthy state of it. Sherlock marvelled once again at how in tune the older man was with himself and what most people would call a very unconventional friendship they had. The first time John had touched him, apart from casual brushes of fingers or careful stitches, Sherlock had recoiled and repeated his 'I consider myself married to my work' speech and John had only laughed and explained, once again, that he really wasn't interested in men in that way _at all_ and that some simple physical contact didn't have to entail sexual desire or anything of the sort. Sherlock had found himself agreeing and, over the years, had taken that a step further and developed a habit or crashing on his friend when exhaustion got the better of him, draping himself over the man while watching telly, tucking his freezing toes under John's thighs or - during a few nightmare-riddled and sleepless nights since his return - crawling into his bed and feeling much more secure next to the other man with a strong, protective hand resting on his wrist.

John sometimes grinned and said it was no wonder people kept assuming the two of them were shagging with all the touching and cuddling they did, but Sherlock couldn't care less. People always talked about something. Irritating, dull, predictable idiots. He and John weren't like that. They were friends and they were comfortable with what they had and they didn't care about what the general population considered 'normal' or 'standard' behaviour between two grown men. What he felt for John was almost brotherly, or at least he assumed it was, because he'd certainly never felt like that about _Mycroft_. And anyone who took offence to their relationship wasn't worth Sherlock's time anyway.

"You still with me?" John asked softly, now propped up on one elbow to look down at the younger man. Sherlock realised he'd zoned out a bit and cleared his throat.

"Yes. And I'm fine, John. It's all fine."

"You should talk to Greg."

Sherlock raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"Don't you think he deserves to know? The chances of it happening again are pretty slim if you keep ignoring the whole thing and avoiding the man," the doctor pointed out.

"Who said anything about _it_ happening again?"

It was John's turn to quirk an eyebrow and put on his most indulging face. Sherlock hated that face.

"Caring is not an advantage, John, and sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."

"There is no 'losing side' when it comes to love, Sherlock."

"There's one for your blog. Your readers will eat up that romance-novel-drivel."

John threw up his hands and rolled his eyes, sliding off the bed and moving to the door. "Fine, suit yourself. But if you're still in here feeling sorry for yourself when I get back I'm going to toss out every single one of your mould cultures and stop watering the rust experiment while you're out."

"You wouldn't dare!" Sherlock yelled after him with narrowed eyes. One of the cultures was looking rather promising.

"Try me!"

* * *

**'Join me for a pint? JW'**

**'Absolutely! Usual pub, thirty minutes? GL'**

**'Cheers, mate. JW'**

"Rough day, eh?" John grinned, pulled back the bar stool next to his and patted it invitingly.

"You have no idea," Greg groaned, taking the already ordered beer and downing half of it in one go. "What is it about Christmas season that makes 'em all go bonkers?"

"Prolonged exposure to family," John deadpanned, causing the older man to snort and nod his agreement. "What happened?"

"Series of break-ins with the culprit leaving sock puppets behind as clues. Bloody sock puppets, John! They had those creepy googly eyes 'n everything."

"Sounds like something Sherlock'd have loved to get his hands on," John remarked, casually tracing a drop of moisture along the brim of his glass. "Did you text him? He didn't mention anything."

Greg fidgeted with the little bowl of peanuts, not meeting the doctor's eyes. "We had it under control," he mumbled.

"Ah, and here I thought you were avoiding him after your impromptu make-out session the other day," the blonde drawled, lazily lifting an eyebrow and popping a pretzel into his mouth.

"You're such a bastard," Greg groaned and dropped his head to the bar, running a hand through his hair. "Luring me out with the promise of alcohol only to get the latest gossip about my lack of a sex life."

John shrugged, entirely unapologetic. "I did buy you a pint, so there you go. And I really think you should talk to him."

"And what, pray tell, would I say to him, eh? Do I laugh it off? Apologise?"

"Well, I'd say that depends on where you want this to go."

"Nowhere!" Greg spluttered a bit too quickly and blushed. "Nowhere, it-...it won't, no, it _can't_ happen."

"Why not? 'Cause he's a _he_?" John demanded impatiently, protective instincts kicking in.

"You're kidding?" the silver-haired man gaped. He barked out a laugh and shook his head when John only shrugged again. "I had my sexual identity crisis back in my twenties. That's all sorted. Hell, you don't know about David? Thought everyone did after the last office party." He chuckled at the memory of drunk groping in a supply closet and being discovered by Sally, New Scotland Yard's biggest blabbermouth.

"The 'tall, good-looking bloke with the drop-dead gorgeous smile' from the labs? Yeah, I participate in office gossip." John's lips twitched in amusement as he imagined them together, then he shuddered and scrunched up his face. "Fine, then what is it?"

"Apart from how inappropriate it would be, work-wise and all, he's not like that."

John frowned. "Like what?"

"Sexual?" Greg offered, a little helplessly.

"How would you know?"

"In all the years I've known him, there's never been anyone, he's never shown any interest whatsoever in those kind of things. That's rather telling, don't you think?"

They sat in silence for a while, nursing their respective beers until John spoke up again. "You know him, probably even better than I do. You know how hard he makes it for himself to let people in, to accept their friendship. Why would romance or sexuality be any different? It's an even deeper level of commitment he's not entirely comfortable with in the first place. Some people need a strong emotional bond to feel any sexual desire for another person. And now think what would happen if you took one of the most emotionally repressed and unstable men in the entirety of Great Britain and presented him with that precise condition?"

Greg considered this for a moment, but in the end he allowed the point. "Okay, fine. He can't separate sex and romance and he's crap at romance. But still, if that's true, what about you?"

"What about me?" John asked, puzzled.

"Well, you're his best friend, his closest confidant. So you and him, that would make a hell of a lot more sense than him and m-...well, anyone else." Greg only just managed to cover up his almost slip, and not even very convincingly, going by John's knowing look.

"Greg, mate, I can't believe I have to tell this to _you_ of all people, but I'm not actually gay. Or bi or whatever other middle thing there is. John Watson; ladies man through and through," the doctor grinned and the older man rolled his eyes, unable to not chuckle along.

"A tosser is what you are. Poor Mary," Greg teased, having one of the nuts flicked at him. "'Sides, I don't think he's interested. Why would he be?"

"Appalling taste in men?" John offered teasingly, holding up his hands in defence at the other man's mock-offended glare. "Who knows? These things don't follow any rules. They just happen. If you let them, that is. And, being serious here for a moment, Greg; you've fancied the shit out of him even before your divorce was through, so don't pretend you don't want this."

"'Course I bloody do," Greg sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes.

"Look, I don't know what goes on in that massive brain of his, but I know this; he cares about you and he's been absolutely miserable for the last few days." Greg perked up at that, eyebrows disappearing somewhere in his fringe. "Talk to him and see what happens, yeah? You can't leave it like this. For the sake of your work, my sanity and the state of our flat."

"Yeah, I know. I'll sort it, no worries," Greg promised with a weak smile, flagging down the bartender before turning back to John. "Another round?"

"Sure, why not." John smiled back and squeezed the older man's shoulder.

* * *

An hour after his chat with John and checking his mould, Sherlock stepped out of the shower and stumbled into the sitting room, flinging himself down on the sofa with an annoyed "Go away," thrown in the general direction of his chair where Mycroft was sitting, twirling his umbrella and tapping his foot.

"How's _The Work_ going?" Mycroft asked, completely ignoring his brother's dramatics as usual.

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled and pulled the Union Jack pillow over his head in an attempt to tune the older man out.

"You can imagine my surprise when I was presented with the CCTV footage from your last case," the redhead drawled, using his brolly's handle to push away the cushion. Sherlock glared.

"We had an agreement not to talk about our romantic lives, did we not?" the younger man sniffed disdainfully. "And besides, your husband is a snobby, stuck-up Dutch diplomat who only married into the family for money. You can hardly draw comparisons between him and Lestrade."

Mycroft quirked an interested eyebrow when Sherlock actually admitted to what had happened. "You do know how much I worry, brother dear."

"You mean how much you love to meddle?"

"Sherlock-"

"It's nothing, Mycroft. Go away!" the younger brother snapped and turned to face the back of the sofa with a dramatic _swish_ of his dressing gown.

"You are allowed to care, Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly, only causing the other man to snort and make a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat.

" _Caring._ Are we forgetting the family motto, brother?" Sherlock sneered angrily. "God knows you've repeated it to me more than enough over the years."

There was a telling moment of silence before Mycroft cleared his throat and started to leave, pausing at the foot of the sofa. "I didn't think you would listen. You never do," he whispered, which was as close to admitting that he'd been wrong as Mycroft Holmes ever came. Sherlock stayed silent.

With a quick, reassuring brush of his fingers over Sherlock's calf, the elder Holmes left.


	3. Sleuthing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg shows some insecurities and Sherlock's a bit of an annoying dick - really, though, Greg and John agree on that one!

** Sleuthing **

"John, come and have a look at these flecks on her wrist. Candle wax, wouldn't you say?"

Teeth clattering, John ducked out from under Greg's umbrella and sprinted through the rain, crouching down next to his friend and the body to inspect the victim as ordered.

It was astonishing to watch the two of them work, Greg noticed once again. They were in perfect synch, moving around each other with ease. Encouraging each other's talents, finishing each other's thoughts and generally completing each other like two halves of a whole. Which caused a tiny spark of jealousy to flare up in Greg's chest, making him grit his teeth and huff out a cloud of irritated breath into the night air.

He was being ridiculous, of course, and he knew it too. John and Sherlock were...beyond description. They simply _were_ and didn't give a crap what kind of assumptions people made about them. Everyone at the Yard, including Greg, had been convinced at one point or another that the two of them were hooking up and deeply in love until John had announced his engagement to Mary Morstan, the new doctor at the surgery he worked at. And even then some people hadn't been convinced. Had talked behind help up hands about 'poor Mary, acting as a substitute for a dead man' or 'John's obvious yet repressed homosexuality'.

But Sherlock had come back, and John had broken his nose first and then hugged him. He had carved out a spot in his new life for his old friend, but his relationship with Mary had persisted and even grown stronger through all of the sudden, mid-nightly and sometimes incredibly dangerous chases around the city. And now they were only weeks and a Christmas holiday away from the wedding, a supposedly most romantic affair in a castle up North with snow and warm chimney fires and copious amounts of mulled wine.

"That's disgusting," John sighed and Greg looked up to see him pinching the bridge of his nose as Sherlock licked the pavement near the woman's right knee.

The detective scrunched up his face in concentration and smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Gun oil," he announced after a moment, rolling his eyes when John gave him his 'absolutely-not!' stare.

"Oh, excuse me for not feeling the urge to put my tongue anywhere near a dead person to taste out bloody _oil!_ "

"The oil is the most important clue so far, John. How do you even function with that limited brain capacity of yours?" Sherlock groaned, bending down again to sniff at the victim's hair this time.

Greg chuckled to himself and tuned out their bickering. It wasn't like he could follow Sherlock's rapid fire observations and deductions anyway. He'd have to sit the curly-haired bundle of manic energy down later and coax him into giving a statement by distracting him with stupid questions which irritated him into explaining the whole thing in a slower, more sedated pace. He'd become somewhat of a professional in Sherlockology over the years, if he was allowed to say so himself without sounding bigheaded.

He swallowed nervously, wondering if it would be any different this time, after their little snogging stunt from two weeks ago. This was the first case Greg had called Sherlock in on since it had happened. Probably not exactly what John had meant by 'talking to Sherlock' and 'setting things straight again', but he was trying, all right? He had pushed down his own nervousness and texted Sherlock with the details. He had repared himself to deal with any awkwardness or resentment that might ensue, only to be completely ignored upon the detective's arrival at the scene.

Under normal circumstances, Greg wouldn't have bat an eye at the lack of attention. It was _Sherlock_ , after all. Now, though, he couldn't help the fear slowly creeping up on him. The fear that he had tipped that delicate balance between 'friendship' and 'nothing' very much into the latter category. Was the younger man ignoring him because he was disgruntled and confused by what had transpired between them? Or was his mind already somewhere far away, putting puzzle pieces no one else had even seen together, too preoccupied to take proper notice of the people around him? Was he uncomfortable being in close proximity to Greg and refusing to acknowledge the older man because of it? Or had he already forgotten about the incident and gone back to being an arrogant, annoying bastard who only ever talked to anyone if it suited him?

John had said Sherlock had been miserable after their kiss - _fine_ , their very thorough snog - but why? Greg had tried to see the whole thing logically. He was a police officer and trained to piece clues together, for heaven's sake. And there was so much that spoke for Sherlock having enjoyed it, too; he had initiated the whole thing, _twice_ , he had smiled and even giggled and he had definitely been aroused. But then he had gone cold and dismissive, running off without much of a goodbye and without even looking at Greg again. Had he been surprised by his own impulsiveness? Had he been repulsed after realising who he'd just backed up against a wall? Had he been regretting it? Or had he been shy and uncertain? Greg couldn't get the expression of the usually so self-assured, elegant and yes, even smug Sherlock looking utterly open and flustered out of his mind. He hadn't imagined or misread that, had he? And surely, with those ridiculous deductive skills of his, Sherlock must have seen that Greg was little more than putty in his hands? An old, lovesick fool.

"John!" Sherlock sounded outraged, jumping up as his 'assistant' walked away, mobile clasped to his ear and one hand over the speaker.

"Sorry, gotta take this."

"Why?"

John shot him his 'you are such an idiot sometimes'-look, somehow making the whole thing seem fond instead of angry. "Because, Sherlock, she is my future wife and I love her and the least I can do is tell her why I won't make our date." With that he turned, hurrying under small canopy a few metres away, shouting over his shoulder, "Go stand with Greg, you're drenched already. You'll catch pneumonia. Again."

Sherlock made some sort of whining noise Greg had previously only heard from small children and generally acted as if everyone was purposefully being annoying and stupid, but did as he was told and came to wait under the silver-haired man's umbrella, phone already in hand and typing away. He might have been trying to appear cross with John - and the general public - but the zealous twinkle in his eyes gave him away.

"Having fun?" Greg chuckled and lowered the umbrella for some privacy. Anderson was already starting to glower in their direction.

"Mm." Sherlock hummed absently, thumbs flying over the small keyboard. A drop of water from his curls hit the display and he sniffed, displeased, but seemed otherwise unbothered that he was dripping wet.

Greg loved seeing him like that. It was a whole different person from the sickly yet no less brilliant junkie he'd met so many years ago. In a sudden surge of affection, he reached out to swipe a blotch of muddy water from the detective's cheek, freezing the moment his hand made contact with Sherlock's skin. He'd done it a thousand times before. Putting band aids on him, grabbing his shoulders or arms to keep him from propelling away, supporting him with an arm around his waist when he'd been too weak to walk himself, holding him under the ice cold stream of the shower when he'd been feverish and barely conscious. Yet this, _this_ was different. Greg's fingers were tingling, his head was buzzing and everything around him vanished out of his mind, leaving only the man next to him and bringing him into sharp focus.

And then Sherlock seemed to snap out of his thoughts and lifted his head to meet Greg's eyes, his expression somewhere between unsure and afraid, one eyebrow lifted in an obvious question. So Greg smiled, probably the happiest and most honest smile he'd smiled in ages, and brushed his thumb back and forth over that ridiculous cheekbone, stroking, _caressing_.

He watched as Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, leaning into the contact for a short moment before turning his face and pressing a lingering kiss to Greg's palm. He hummed and nosed along the scar from a particularly nasty pub fight in Greg's teens, his own hand coming to rest lightly over the older man's. With another brief press of warm lips, Sherlock carefully lowered both their hands and squeezed once before ducking away and meeting an approaching John halfway, waving his phone and gesturing wildly.

John nodded, praise falling from his lips, and Sherlock looked delighted as he headed to the nearby street to hail a cab with his superhuman cab-hailing-skills. The doctor lingered and, once he was sure the younger man was gone, he met Greg's gaze and quirked an eyebrow. Greg shrugged a little helplessly, but something in his face must have looked promising, because John grinned and gave him a thumbs-up before running after his flatmate.

* * *

"Sherlock, if I let you do this, if I let you come along on the stake-out, you have to _promise_ me that you won't do anything stupid. Like run off or get yourself harmed or-"

"Spare me, Lestrade! It will be fine."

Well, that hadn't exactly been a promise, Greg thought with a sigh as the detective wandered off, but he'd take what he could get out of the infuriating genius. And not just concerning this, but in everything else, he realised and closed his eyes, taking a few calming breaths. He was so royally screwed.

* * *

It wasn't fine. Sherlock had run off and probably - most likely - gotten himself harmed. Or was about to. One of the two, Greg was fairly sure of it.

"Bloody Sherlock," he grumbled quietly, service weapon in hand and ears straining to pick up a sign of the drug manufacturers turned consulting detective nappers. Next to him, John grunted what sounded like his agreement, something along the lines of; 'If _they_ don't kill him, _I_ will!'

The two of them crept along the dark corridor, carefully checking the old, long-abandoned class rooms as they passed. All of them were empty so far. Greg wasn't sure if he should take that as a good sign or a bad one. His skin itched with the need to find Sherlock and get everyone to safety, and to apprehend the head of the drug smuggling ring the Met had been after for several months now. He shot a brief look at John, who was rigid with tension, gun hand twitching. With a sigh - where the fuck had his professionalism gone? - he nodded at the doctor's jeans.

"Take it out."

John startled, but got himself under control impressively fast. "W-what?"

Greg graced him with his very own 'I am not an idiot!'-glare and John, lips pursed, pulled his Browning from the waistband of his trousers.

The younger man raised a questioning eyebrow. Greg shrugged one shoulder and smiled drily. "Could be dangerous. Try not to fire it. Intimidation only, if possible."

John nodded and they started moving again until a slight and barely visible beam of light caused them both to stop dead in their tracks. It came from under the door at the very end of the hall, one of those with a bit of frosted glass in the middle. There were shadows moving behind it, but it was impossible to say how many exactly. Greg's silent cursing at that unfortunate fact would have put even the toughest sailor to shame.

 _'What now?'_ , John mouthed and the older man bit his lip, thinking, before gesturing for the doctor to position himself on the left side of the door while he himself took the right. How bloody long could it possibly take for Sally and the rest of his team to realise they were gone? God, he'd never shout at Sherlock again. Sometimes they really were fucking slow.

"How many others?" someone behind the door demanded, the skin-on-skin noise of a painful-sounding slap following the question.

There was spitting and then Sherlock's familiar baritone voice drifted through to them, not lacking its usual scathing undertones. "You broke the index finger of your left hand at least twice during your adolescence."

"How-"

"It's what he does. Ignore it," came another man's voice. The leader. Greg would recognise that little shit's voice even if he was piss drunk. He'd hauled his arse in for questioning on at least half a dozen occasions, so far without any permanent results. Well, _that_ was going to change after tonight. He'd make sure of it.

"Where's your lil' friend, then?" The first man again, now sounding faintly amused and a bit smug. "He abandon you? Say, what I've always wondered; he the top or the bottom? Goes on and on about how 'brilliant' and 'amazing' you are in that blog o' his, always thought that very sweet. Couldn't figure out if 'e'd prefer to take up the arse or the other way ' round, though."

Greg didn't have to turn his head, he was able to _feel_ John rolling his eyes at the washed-out topic.

On the other side of the door, Sherlock let out a low, amused chuckle. "Having had the pleasure of your company for the past hour, I can safely say that you wouldn't be able to figure out a person's sexual preferences if you caught them in the act."

If the situation hadn't been somewhat grave and dangerous, Greg would have burst out laughing. John too, from the looks of him. The kidnapper, however, seemed to need a little longer to piece together exactly how he'd just been insulted - which only helped to prove the message of the insult.

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"Obviousl-"

The sound of teeth smacking together hardly had Greg wince in sympathy and tighten his hand around his weapon.

"You wanna take that back?" the seemingly furious man spat and Sherlock sputtered as if choking, his next words barely audible over his struggle to get enough oxygen into his lungs.

"Act-...actually, I...was talking abo-...'bout _both_ of you. Both of...you, standing wi-...with your _backs_ to...to the do-"

Greg and John leapt into action. The worked synchronously in pushing open the door and training their guns on the two startled men, who'd whirled around at the sound, hands twitching for their own guns.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you," Greg barked and quirked a challenging eyebrow. He'd wonder about how Sherlock knew he and John had been standing there later after-

All it took was half a second. The leader lunged at John, who went down with a startled _umpf_ , but landed a punch shortly after, eliciting a cry of pain from the man on top of him. Greg watched them from the corner of his eyes, keeping his main focus on the second guy, but he needn't have worried. Sherlock used the momentary lack of attention towards his own person to rise from the chair he was sitting on with his usual grace, pick up a piece of pipe from the floor next to him - cuffs hanging from one wrist, Greg noticed with a grin - and expertly knock out his 'guard'.

"Morons," the detective sniffed haughtily, gazing down at the pipe and quickly dropping it with a small wrinkle of his nose. " _Ugh, John!_ Did you pick up a new bottle of disinfectant as I requested?"

"As you _ordered_ me to, you mean?" John asked from his position sitting on the drug lord's back while Greg quickly kneeled down next to them, cuffing the man. "Yeah, I did."

"Good." Sherlock nodded. Then, staring down at himself where the blood from a split lip was dripping onto his collar, "This was my favourite shirt."

* * *

The nurse practically fled the room after cleaning the cut across Sherlock's eyebrow, visibly holding back tears.

"Was that really necessary?" Greg sighed, pressing a thumb into his closed eye - headache fast approaching.

"There is no need for me to be here in the first place," Sherlock mumbled sulkily.

Greg decided not to point out that they were here because Sherlock needed stitches and John couldn't fix him up due to a severely worried fiancée he needed to calm down a few rooms down the hall. They'd had that particular argument exactly eight times since arriving at the A&E forty minutes earlier. Instead he took a deep breath, figuring he'd deliver his usual speech about recklessness and causing trouble by running off. Which Sherlock would completely disregard, of course.

He hesitated, though, when Sherlock let out a tired huff and, without looking up, took Greg's hand that rested on the examination table next to him and linked their fingers.

"Sherlock-"

The detective tugged at their now joined hands until Greg got the hint and stepped closer, allowing Sherlock to press his forehead against the older man's chest. He hissed and shifted a bit when the motion put pressure on his wound, but soon found a position he deemed acceptable with his ear resting above Greg's heart and his free arm settling around his waist. He hummed contentedly and yeah, Greg was so not going to manage that speech now.

"You okay?" he asked instead, cradling the back of Sherlock's head, gently rubbing his thumb over the nape of the detective's neck.

"Mm," Sherlock breathed, sounding as if he was on the verge of drifting off right there against Greg. Which wasn't that far-fetched, with the adrenaline now mostly out of his system and all. Well, the being sleepy part wasn't, the cuddled up to Greg part was new. Not unwelcome, though.

And if it had been anyone else, anyone but Sherlock Holmes, Greg would have taken it as a pretty clear sign as to what was happening. Sherlock, on the other hand, was an enigma, utterly unreadable. Was this genuine affection? Or just exhaustion? Or a simple manipulation to get out of yet another scolding? Greg couldn't be sure.

Taking his chances, he placed a kiss on top of the detective's messy mop of curls, lingering for just a moment. Sherlock's answer was a snore.

Right.

Well.

That was fucking inconclusive, wasn't it? Typical bloody Sherlock.


	4. Remembering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the confusingly twisted mind of teenage Sherlock and its struggle with differentiating love and lust.

** Remembering **

_Oxford, August 1995_

Sherlock tilted his head, squinting at the night sky, trying to follow the line of Victor's pointing finger. After a moment, he sighed and closed his eyes. "I don't see it."

Next to him on the grass, Victor chuckled and dropped his hand before rolling over on top of the curly-haired teen, elbows on either side of Sherlock's face. He smiled at Sherlock and bent down, rubbing their noses together.

"What." It wasn't really a question and Sherlock huffed at his apparently abrupt and complete lack of eloquence. But the older teen's breath was hot on his face, making it strangely hard to focus on anything else all of a sudden.

"Beautiful," Victor whispered hoarsely, gently rubbing his thumbs over prominent cheekbones. Sherlock scowled at the compliment, causing Victor to smooth away the lines of his frown before pressing their foreheads together with a happy little hum. "Beautiful," he repeated and closed his lips over Sherlock's plump pout.

Sherlock froze. Victor was brilliant and amazing and clever and Sherlock's only friend. He made Sherlock laugh and never got angry with Sherlock and his antics and he helped Sherlock through every single one of his dark moods. And Sherlock did not want Victor to leave. He didn't think he would survive it if Victor left.

"Sherlock?" Victor looked concerned as he stroked a hand through Sherlock's curls, one eyebrow quirked questioningly. "Are you all right? You have... _oh my God_ , you have done this before, haven't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock assured quickly and brought his arms around the other teen, firmly holding him in place. He had done this before. This and much more, but he hadn't liked any of it. He was a physically healthy seventeen-year-old who didn't like kissing or groping or frottage or penetration. He had concluded quite some time ago that there had to be something seriously wrong with his brain. As a child, his parents had dragged him from one psychiatrist to the next, determined to find out why their little boy was the way he was. Obviously, this lack of sexual attraction and desire was just another symptom on the long list of mental health issues Sherlock had been diagnosed with over the years.

Normal people, people who weren't Sherlock, liked kissing and touching and everything those actions promised. The normal people always got angry and called him weird when Sherlock told them he didn't like those things. And they all eventually left when Sherlock didn't reciprocate or was passive or downright refused to participate at all.

The others hadn't mattered, though. They'd been unimportant, just experiments. But Victor was special. Victor was _everything_ and Sherlock was fairly sure that he was in love with Victor and love meant compromise. So Sherlock would give Victor this piece of himself and Victor would stay and, surely, that was worth the discomfort and disgust Sherlock would feel for making this sacrifice for the other teen.

So Sherlock craned his neck and captured Victor's mouth again, prying the older teen's lips open with a firm press of his tongue.

"Sherlock." Victor pulled back and he didn't look happy. Sherlock would have to do better. He tried to move in for another kiss, but Victor cupped his face and stroked his brow. "If you don't want to... we don't have to... Sherlock, do you _want_ this?"

No. "Yes," Sherlock growled instead and pushed, flipping them and straddling Victor's hips. Victor's hands came up to hold on to Sherlock's side and neck, pulling him down into a kiss and _oh_.

Victor kissed Sherlock's full lower lip and it felt nice. He kissed Sherlock's throat and that felt nice too. He rubbed circles over Sherlock's lower back and pushed his hips up against Sherlock's own and that felt _very_ nice and Sherlock moaned, startling himself.

And Victor laughed, pushing Sherlock away to get up and then link their fingers. He took Sherlock back to his room where they kissed some more and groped and rutted against each other and everything felt _spectacular_. They both came into their pants, sprawled all over each other, flushed and panting and content.

Dazed and high on endorphins and oxytocin, Sherlock decided that, yes, he very much liked sex and that, maybe, he'd just had to get used to it first. And Sherlock was thrilled that, at least in this aspect, he was perfectly normal and exactly like everyone else.

When Victor didn't tell him to leave after they'd come back to themselves and gathered Sherlock in his arms instead, that was good.

When they woke up in each other's arms for the first time the morning after, that was good.

When Sherlock came down Victor's throat a week later, a little more than a babbling mess, that was good.

When Victor told Sherlock that he was beautiful and amazing and gorgeous, that was good.

When they had proper, penetrative sex for the first time and Victor kept repeating that he loved Sherlock with every thrust, that was good.

When Sherlock told Victor that he loved him back and Victor hugged him so hard it hurt, that was good.

When Victor's parents decided to move back to America and take Victor with them, that was a bit not good.

When they lay in bed together for the last time on the evening before Victor's flight and Sherlock cried and couldn't stop, that was even less good.

When they both cried and clung to each other at the airport, that was the least good thing ever.

When Victor wrote or called and Sherlock ignored him because it hurt too much, Sherlock had no idea what that was.

And when Victor finally stopped writing and calling, Sherlock tried cocaine for the first time.

* * *

_London, Christmas Eve 1996_

Henry was sweet and kind and completely infatuated with Sherlock. He was also stupid and slow and getting on Sherlock's nerves. But Sherlock was _bored_ and his parents' annual gathering was _boring_ and Mycroft's fretting was _boring_ , so Sherlock let Henry pull him into an empty room and crash their mouths together.

It was wet and sloppy and disgusting and Sherlock was confused. He didn't like it and he couldn't get hard, even with Henry on his knees in front of him and his mouth around him. He made up an excuse of having had a bit too much to drink and let Henry fuck him against the closest wall and hated every single second of it.

After Henry had spilled himself inside him, Sherlock left without another word and spent the next two hours under the shower, crying and shouting and scrubbing his skin red and raw and being absolutely miserable with the realisation that he was broken after all.

* * *

_Oxford, February 1997_

Mateo was dark-haired and blue-eyed with tanned skin and pearly white teeth. The Spanish exchange student was chased by girls and boys alike, but for reasons unfathomable to Sherlock, he had chosen _him_ of all people. Sherlock felt special.

So, naturally, when Mateo asked, Sherlock said yes and sucked him off in the empty biology lab. Mateo was too rough and too fast and too big. Sherlock strained and choked and gagged and his jaw continued to hurt for three days straight.

They didn't talk about it after, which was fine. Mateo left for Barcelona after a semester and took a girl called Janet with him, which was fine too.

* * *

_Hawaii, summer 1997_

The heat was oppressive, causing rivers of sweat to run down Sherlock's face and bare chest, leaving him wet and sticky and severely annoyed. He groaned and draped an arm across his eyes, vowing that he'd murder Mycroft for blackmailing him into coming along on their family vacation. It wasn't as if the family spent the time together anyway, his brother had locked himself inside their shared and surprisingly well temperature-controlled hotel room to work while his parents were out sight-seeing or some such nonsense.

With a sigh, Sherlock heaved himself up and was almost across the inner court of the hotel when he suddenly smelled it. All it took was ducking under a few rails and pushing his way through an 'Employees Only' door to find one of the pool boys with a very suspicious cigarette clammed between his lips. The teenager stared at him with wide, shocked eyes.

"Care to share?" Sherlock asked, already plucking it from his mouth to take a drag. He didn't worry in the slightest why the other teen didn't protest, figuring he was afraid to lose his job if he refused to share his drugs with the guest who had discovered him with said drugs.

They smoked in companionable silence and when the pool boy pulled open another door and retrieved a bottle of white wine from the cold room and raised an inquiring eyebrow, well, who was Sherlock to say no? One bottle turned into two and then three. When Sherlock asked if the other teen intended to go back to work drunk, he just shrugged. He said the pay was shit anyway and tugged at Sherlock's bathing trunks until he was close enough to kiss.

Tipsy and high, Sherlock was naked before he quite realised it. When the other teen sank into him after only the most minimal of preparations, he shouted out in shocked pain. He pushed and cursed and said no, but was told in no uncertain terms he hadn't said no to the kissing and that he shouldn't act like he didn't want this and not to be a damn tease.

So Sherlock just lay there and took everything and told himself that this wasn't so bad. That it wasn't like he enjoyed sex anymore even if he chose to do it out of his free will and that, in the end, it wasn't all that different anyway.

The pool boy came fast and hard, his pulling out making Sherlock wince. He smiled and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth and told him he knew where to find him if he wanted to have another go.

Sherlock stumbled back to his room and flopped face first on the bed. He ignored Mycroft's worried questions and fell asleep feeling like a complete freak of nature.

* * *

_Oxford, March 1998_

Sebastian was a loud, spoilt, obnoxious brat. Sherlock decided he really rather liked him when, after he'd angrily deduced and spilled all of the other young man's secrets in front of at least a dozen people, Sebastian had just grinned that crooked grin of his and asked Sherlock out for a pint.

They quickly became inseparable and trouble followed them wherever they went - which was mostly places they weren't supposed to be. Sherlock picked locks while Sebastian stood guard. Sherlock bit his lower lip and distracted the obviously interested economics professor with flirtatious glances from under heavy lids while Sebastian ransacked the man's office in search of the answers for the finals. Sherlock wrote the first year student's chemistry papers while Sebastian stayed on top of who owed them what kind of favour in return. Sebastian was all smiles and good manners to stall Sherlock's parents while Sherlock hurried around his room and flushed his stash.

And then Sherlock kissed Sebastian while Sebastian was sprawled out on Sherlock's bed with his eyes closed and a joint hanging from one hand, because Sherlock had a very big crush on Sebastian and needed Sebastian to stay with him.

After a short moment of confusion, Sebastian dropped the still burning joint and smiled, flipping them over and pinning Sherlock down into the mattress. Sherlock prepared himself to shut off his mind like he'd trained himself to do and waited for the discomfort to set in and prayed for the act to be over quickly.

But when Sebastian nuzzled against his neck and sucked a mark over his collarbone, Sherlock felt a tingling he hadn't felt in ages and realised he was already half hard. So he went with it, puzzled as to why sex was now a good thing again, but also extremely glad because it meant he could give Sebastian what Sebastian wanted without hating himself afterwards and would even get to enjoy himself.

They fucked like they did all other things; hard, dirty, laughing and everywhere they weren't supposed to do it, including the headmaster's office on two separate occasions.

Sherlock walked in on Sebastian balls deep in Emily Hunt six weeks later and practically fled the campus. Sebastian found him in one of their hang-outs four hours later, strung-out and barely conscious. He held Sherlock's shivering body and swore that he hadn't known about Sherlock's feelings, that he'd thought it was casual for the both of them, that he cared about Sherlock a huge fucking deal, but that he didn't love him. He apologised for hurting Sherlock and misreading the signals. He kissed Sherlock's brow and brushed sweaty curls away from his forehead, whispering soothing, reassuring nothings until Sherlock came back to himself. He swallowed hard, eyes moist, and told Sherlock he didn't want to lose his best friend and then they fucked in the dirty bathroom with Sebastian being gentler and more considerate than he'd ever been before. It made everything so much worse.

The next day, Sebastian sat Sherlock down and said that he'd been thinking and that it would be best if they stopped with the physical part of their 'relationship' in order to avoid hurting Sherlock any more than he'd already been hurt and to save what was left of their friendship. Sherlock snapped at him not to go all mushy all of a sudden and that it was all fine. They continued having fairly bad sex and grew so far apart that neither of them bothered to stay in contact when Sherlock graduated that summer.

* * *

_Summer 1998_

Finally back home for good, curled up on his childhood bed with an empty syringe discarded on his nightstand, Sherlock wept. He couldn't stop. Not even when Mycroft, clearly confused and out of his depth, sat down beside him and stroked his curls, asking how he could help. But Sherlock didn't know how and Mycroft didn't know either, so he told his little brother the only true thing he'd learned so far in his life; that caring wasn't an advantage, that all lives ended and all hearts were broken.

It was the first, only and last piece of advice from Mycroft that Sherlock ever took to heart.

* * *

_Autumn 1998 - December 31st 1999_

The time from the end of his university days to the start of the new millennium was a fuzzy blaze of alcohol, drugs and sex. The drugs were heaven and the sex was hell and the alcohol was what kept Sherlock sane in-between.

Emotions were dangerous and sentiment was useless, so he stopped having the former and believing in the latter.

His body was nothing more than transport, so that's how he treated it.

Sex was what everyone else liked and engaged in. It was a means to an end, an incentive and a good reason for people to tolerate him, so he endured it.

Sherlock was beautiful, skilled, brilliant and a fast learner, so the men kept coming; Oliver forgot to collect money for the cocaine after a blow job, Nick let him crash on his sofa if he let the man screw him into said sofa, Shawn always got what he wanted anyway, Hunter and Daniel had always been eager to try a threesome and paid handsomely, Thom held him afterwards when he cried and told him how much he loved him and all the other ones, names long forgotten or deleted, had had their reasons too.

And then Sherlock walked into the right place at the right time. He shouted at a sergeant and told him what an idiot he was for not seeing the right clues and got arrested because he was high and raging around a crime scene. At the end of the night, he was taken home to sleep everything off in Lestrade's guest room, listening to the rest of London celebrate the beginning of the new year.

Lestrade thought he was both the most brilliant and the most irritating person on the face of the earth. He forced him to get clean and rewarded him with cases. Lestrade was kind and took him in again when he relapsed - the first, second and third time - ignoring the protests of his wife. Lestrade was funny and Lestrade cared and Sherlock fell for him almost instantly and held on to him tightly.

But Lestrade also had a wife and had no interest in Sherlock in that way. Which was all right as long as he was in Sherlock's life and Sherlock didn't do feelings anymore anyway. So Sherlock married his work and met John and, somehow, everything was more or less fine. Until he came back from the dead and Lestrade was very single and very available and Sherlock's brain completely short-circuited with the mere possibility of what could be.

* * *

Sprawled out on their sofa in 221B, Sherlock listened to John busying himself in the kitchen with making tea and wondered how Lestrade was going to break his heart and if he'd ever be able to pull himself together again afterwards. Because Sherlock knew that he did not possess the strength to walk away from this, and there was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that, eventually, Gregory Lestrade would throw him away like all the others had and leave him burned and broken beyond repair.


	5. Celebrating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Sherlock’s relationship moves forward. A bit. Well... it’s complicated.

  
** Celebrating **

If Greg were a less decent man, he'd probably have told her what a fucking cunt she was for doing this to him. But he wasn't. He was actually a pretty nice bloke, all things considered. So when his ex-wife texted him an hour before he was supposed to pick up the boys to inform him that she'd taken them to her mother's in Dublin for the holidays and intended to stay there over New Year's, he simply sighed and promised to call the next day to wish his sons a Happy Christmas.

Which is why Greg lay draped over his cheap uncomfortable sofa in his cheap shabby flat with a bottle of cheap disgusting vodka sitting on the floor by his head, feeling very sorry for himself. He'd get majorly pissed and probably pass out on his cheap smelly rug and wake up with a massive hangover, but right at that moment, completely alone and even more lonely than usual on the day before Christmas, he really couldn't bring himself to give a shit. He'd feel bad about his behaviour and be ashamed of himself when he was sober again, Greg decided. He downed another mouthful of that piss the small 24-hour-shop down the street had had on sale.

His phone chimed with an incoming message and Greg groaned, debating wether it was worth reading or not. It could have been work, but then again he was in no state to go in anyway. He'd keel over and throw up and not necessarily in that order. Maybe it was his sister, sending another photo of his niece and nephew building a sandcastle or eating ice cream or whatever else people who fled the British cold - and their brothers! - and escaped to the Bahamas did on the day before fucking Christmas. Either way, it didn't look promising and it was another sign that Greg was a bloody masochist when he reached out, plucked the phone from its place on the coffee table and, with a swipe of his thumb, opened the text.

**'Bored. Case? SH'**

Right. John was away at his sister's with Mary. And Greg was not working tonight. **'Not working tonight. Ask Dimmock. GL'**

The reply came almost immediately. **'Dimmock won't work with me. Cold case? SH'**

Greg considered this for a moment. On one hand, he was loath to get up and drive all the way across London, because it was snowing and he was a bit buzzed and still feeling very sorry for himself. On the other hand, though, the prospect of seeing Sherlock caused a crooked grin to make its way across his face and the butterflies in his stomach to do a silly little dance of joy. God, he was pathetic, wasn't he? And he didn't actually have any cold cases, either. Bugger.

 **'Sorry, there's nothing. GL'** he wrote and then, on a whim, sent another message asking, **'Want me to come over? GL'**

 **'You just said there was no case. Why would you come over if there was no case? SH'** Sherlock's obvious confusion made him snort into another swig of vodka. He spluttered for a moment while rereading it before he managed to type out a reply. **'I meant for some company, you tit. GL'**

 **'Why would I want company? SH'** Well, that wasn't so funny anymore, Greg thought sadly. He refrained from writing something overly cheesy about how much he loved to spend time with the younger man or how he loved to just hear him talk or how he, occasionally, would get hard thinking about how much he loved hearing Sherlock's deep, silky smooth voice. With a slightly disgusted nose-wrinkle, he set the alcohol down on the floor again and pushed it a bit further away out of reach. If he thought that _that_ was cheesy instead of creepy, he'd probably had enough to drink for the moment. **'No reason, just thought I'd ask. GL'**

Ah, yes. Greg was officially an idiot. Why indeed would Sherlock want to spend his evening with a depressed, middle-aged dork who kept fantasising about cuddles on the sofa and lazy Sunday mornings in bed with a man who clearly wasn't interested in him? He huffed and buried his face in a cushion, grumbling nonsensical strings of words until, suddenly, he decided that this was, a bit at least, Sherlock's fault. For kissing him in the first place. And then being all sweet and lovely and approachable during their last case. Yeah, Sherlock Holmes was a proper tosser.

He startled when the mobile he was still clutching vibrated again and felt extremely disgusted with himself when he couldn't bring himself not to read whatever snide comment the tosser detective had for him.

**'Fine. Out of milk. SH'**

Greg read the text once, twice and a third time with his mouth hanging open. When the message finally sank in, he jumped to his feet - only swaying a tiny bit - and raced from the flat at a tempo he hadn't even realised he was able to achieve.

* * *

After a quick stop at the super market and a short detour to the Chinese restaurant on the end of Baker Street - because he was fairly sure Sherlock still didn't feed himself properly when John wasn't around - Greg let himself into 221B with the spare key he had for emergencies and fake drugs busts.

He was freezing and dripping wet. He stomped his feet and ruffled his hair before ascending the stairs in order not to drag too much snow inside. He was already halfway up to the flat when he noticed how dark it was, not even the ususal light in the hall being turned on. And it was cold, too.

"It's almost as cold in here as it's out there," Greg said in way of greeting, depositing his bags in the kitchen before making his way through to the sitting room. Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa in his characteristically dramatic way, dressing gown hanging low on one shoulder and pooling a bit on the floor, with one arm draped over his face. The stretch had caused his shirt to slip up and reveal some marble skin, a belly button and a trail of dark, soft-looking hair trailing down low to-

Greg shook himself and blinked a few times. Not the right moment to think about following that hair or dipping his tongue into that navel or-... _no!_ Stop! God, Greg thought, this evening was going to be torture, wasn't it?

"Heat's out," Sherlock said, sounding bored and a bit puzzled by that.

"Well, did you pay the heat bill? Have you checked the boiler?" Greg sighed, perching on the arm of one of the chairs. That caused Sherlock to lift his arm and frown at him.

"John pays the bills. He's in charge of all things monetary and maintenance."

"John's not here," the older man pointed out and Sherlock _humpf_ ed, unimpressed. Greg noticed the fine tremors shaking Sherlock's body and groaned, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "How long have you been lying there?" he asked as he got up and walked over to crouch next to the detective. He reached out to take one of Sherlock's hands. They were, as expected, ice cold. "Christ, how are you even alive?"

"I was thinking!" Sherlock defended himself, as if that explained everything. Which it probably did, in his opinion. Not so much in Greg's, though.

"Right. Let's get you sorted, then."

Sherlock huffed and grumbled under his breath, but Greg ignored him and went about his new task; warmth. He went downstair to get some logs from Mrs Hudson's supply, because of course Sherlock didn't have anything as pedestrian as fire wood in his home. Apart, of course, from an ongoing experiment on the kitchen table involving some sort of fungi, which Greg was not to touch. He started a fire, humming agreeably when it began to flicker and crackle. Next he gathered up all the pillows, duvets and quilts he could find, throwing them down on the rug in front of the fireplace.

"Come on, up you get," he urged Sherlock, who was apparently colder than he tried to let on, because he went willingly and plopped down close to the fire with only a minimal amount of fuss. The detective tugged one of the quilts tight around himself while Greg went upstairs to change into some dry clothes. Working with John and Sherlock had taught him pretty early on to store a spare set of everything up in one of the doctor's empty drawers. Something he was immensly glad about as he pulled on some pyjama pants and a t-shirt along with a hoodie and two pairs of socks - he was fairly sure his toes were only a mere step away from suffering from frostbite and falling off.

Sherlock was already into the food when he trotted back downstairs, munching contentedly and drinking-

"Cognac?"

"Mycroft's birthday present," Sherlock shrugged, producing a second mug and offering it to Greg as he sat down beside him. Of course they were going to drink what looked like extremely expensive liquor out of old, clipped mugs. Not that Greg was complaining, mind you, it seemed oddly fitting and was heaps better than the cheap crap he'd been gulping down at home.

"Wait. Mycroft's birthday present? Like, one he gave you or one he got and you somehow obtained?"

Sherlock smirked into his drink. "He was being unbearably irritating during 'family dinner' last night."

"You're a twat," Greg snorted, blinking innocently at the narrow-eyed look that statement earned him.

They ate in companionable silence, huddled under mountains of blankets, and watched the fire crinkle away, bathing the room in a warm, golden light. The instant Greg sat down his container of noodles, Sherlock pounced, ending up with his legs on either side of Greg's thighs and his hands cupping the man's face. He leaned in, bringing their lips together for a tentiative and almost shy kiss, rubbing his long fingers over Greg's jaw. When he pulled back, there was that vulnerable expression Greg'd spotted after their first kiss again.

"What are you doing?" Greg breathed, their mouths a only a hair's breadth away.

Sherlock managed to frown, scowl and look extremely sheepish and offended at the same time. Which was actually kind of impressive, even if not exactly what Greg had hoped to achieve with the question.

"I thought that was fairly obvious," the younger man mumbled and made to move away, but Greg swiftly wound his arms around Sherlock's waist to hold him in place.

"Hey. Come on, it's fine," he soothed, trailing one hand up and down Sherlock's spine. "Was just surprised, that's all," he murmured and then he stretched and kissed what was undoubtedly going to be a snarky response right off Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock sighed against his lips, practically melting against Greg, and deepened the kiss. He shifted _just so_ until he could wrap his legs around Greg's hips and cross his ankles behind the man's back. Which was a good thing. A very good thing indeed. Greg parted his lips in invitation and Sherlock followed suit, brushing their tongues together and setting every single one of Greg's nerves on fire in the process. They drew back for air and simply stared at each other for a moment before diving in again simultaniously.

Their kisses grew more desperate, more _needy_ , with every passing second. Greg slid his hands under the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and squeezed that lush arse he'd had inappropriate fantasies about for the last fucking decade, enjoying the feel of Sherlock's surprised gasp. Sherlock's hips moved foreward almost of their own accord, bringing their groins together. Both of them gasped at that and Greg pushed up, chasing more friction and getting it when Sherlock began to rut against him. They established a slow, leisurly rhythm, the detective still more focused on devouring the older man's mouth than getting off, it seemed. Which Greg was absolutely fine with.

He sprawled his hands over Sherlock's back, scratching lightly and causing a whole body shiver to run through the detective. A surprisingly satisfying accomplishment. He abandoned the younger man's lips in favour of his throat, sucking gently before biting down, not hard enough to leave a mark, but going by Sherlock's strangled _"Nngh!"_ it definitely stung. Greg smiled against the slightly red skin, very pleased with himself.

"More!" Sherlock growled, pupils blown-wide with arousal when they locked gazes. Greg moaned but was in a rather induldging mood and complied. He only moved back once he was sure the bruise at the base of the detective's throat would be visible for days. Some small part of his endorphine-flushed brain felt ashamed at how impossibly hard the thought of Sherlock walking around marked as his was making him. Another, less rational part screamed at him to lay claim and take, which was exactly what he intended to do.

Greg brought a bit of space between their chests, eliciting a severely annoyed and displeased grunt from Sherlock, to shuck his shirt before starting to work on the other man's. He tugged it away over his head in one swift movement, causing wild, dark curls to stick up in every possible direction. Unable to resist, he ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, rubbing the pads of his finger over the detective's scalp. The reaction was instantaneous. Sherlock dropped his forehead to Greg's shoulder with a deep, humming moan and went completely limp. Boneless. Pliant under Greg's hands.

"Good thing you like that," Greg chuckled softly and continued his ministrations, curling strands of hair around his fingers before releasing them again, stroking behind Sherlock's ears and caressing the nape of his neck. "'Cause I really like doing it."

Sherlock whimpered against him. He began showering Greg's neck with soft, tiny kisses, interrupted ever so often by a shudder or shiver if the older man came across a particularly sensitive spot.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," Greg groaned after an especially jerky movement of Sherlock's which aligned their cocks perfectly. He grabbed the detective's chin and moved his face to crash their mouths back together. It took him a moment to notice that Sherlock wasn't reciprocating, but once the realisation managed to penetrate the thick fog of arousal in his brain, he quickly pulled back. "What? What's wrong?"

Sherlock looked pained with his eyes pressed shut. He shook his head and waved a slender hand in his familiar 'perfectly fine' gesture.

Greg didn't buy it for a second. "Bullshit! Tell me what's wrong. Please?"

"Don't do that," Sherlock sighed and covered his face with his hands. Hiding away from the other man.

"Do what?" Greg demanded, his voice stricken with concern. He carefully placed his hands on Sherlock's upper thighs, relieved when he didn't flinch away from the contact.

"The thing you did!" Sherlock snapped impatiently from the seclusion behind his palms.

Greg took a deep breath and counted to five before speaking again. Shouting back would most definitely be counterproductive. This was a dance on the knife's edge and there was a chance of falling down either side. He knew what Sherlock getting defensive and snappish meant; the detective was scared. What of, Greg hadn't the faintest.

"We did quite a lot of... _things_ , Sherlock. You'll have to be more specific."

The detective hissed in frustration, but dropped his hands and lowered his gaze, his eyes uselessly roaming over Greg's torso. "The compliment thing. Don't do that."

"What?" Greg frowned. He'd started imagining the worst, having somehow physically hurt Sherlock or something along those lines. But this was unexpected, to say the very least. "You don't want me to tell you that you're gorgeous?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Lestrade!" Sherlock growled angrily and, _shit!_ , Greg could practically see the emotion draining out of his expression, leaving only a blank mask in its wake.

"But... why?" he asked and cringed at Sherlock's answering sneer.

"Isn't it considered terrible bedside manner to not respect your partner's wishes?" the younger man laughed, a horrible, empty sound.

Greg's mouth fell open in shock. " _You_ are lecturing _me_ about what counts as appropriate behaviour?"

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock decided and made to stand up, but Greg quickly grabbed his wrists and tugged him back down.

"Yeah, I agree. Utterly ridiculous," he nodded before timidly kissing the corner of the detective's mouth. Sherlock was rigid against him, his cold, detached eyes boring into Greg's. Greg ignored the put-upon disinterest and pulled the younger man against his chest instead, weaving his fingers back into his hair. The minutes trickled by slowly, but gradually Sherlock relaxed again and circled his arms around Greg in a light embrace.

Greg lowered them both to the floor, he on his back with Sherlock sprawled over him, never ceasing his soothing caresses. Sherlock nosed along his jaw and pressed a kiss to the underside of his chin before resting his head on Greg's chest, his ear over the older man's heart.

The extreme reaction to a bit of praise was worrying and definitely needed further investigation. For the moment, though, Greg was content to simply hold Sherlock and have him close by. To play with his hair and enjoy the sleepy but happy murmurs and sighs coming from the detective.

* * *

They must have dozed off, because the next thing Greg caught was the chiming of church bells, announcing the new day.

"Sherlock?" he whispered, intent on letting the man get some much needed rest if he was actually asleep for once.

"Mm?" came a half-awake murmur which followed by a brush of lips over his Adam's apple.

"Happy Christmas," Greg smiled into the mob of curls tickling his face. He laughed out loud at Sherlock's dismissive snort.

"Stupid, useless traditions-"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock sighed, nuzzling into Greg's neck. "Happy Christmas," he yawned against warm skin before lifting his head just enough to coax Greg into a deep, slow tangle of tongues.

Greg wound one arm around Sherlock's middle. He used his other hand the cup the back of his neck, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's atlas, making the detective hum appreciatively against his lips.


	6. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Greg and Sherlock met for the first time. Or; Sherlock on drugs is a huge dick and Greg has the patience of a saint.

** Meeting **

_December 31st, 1999_

"Lestrade! Go deal with whatever shit's going on out there!"

DI Gregson's expression was bordering on murderous, so Greg wasn't actually all that miffed to be sent out of the victim's relatively warm flat and into the freezing cold of another snowy December night.

He turned up his collar against the breeze and thrust his clenched fists deep into the pockets of his jacket. With clattering teeth he made his way in the general direction of the commotion. The thing about being a police officer, he thought wryly, was that he usually walked _towards_ catastrophes and disasters instead of _away from_ them.

He passed two officers with their heads close together, whispering urgently amongst themselves and shooting glances to the edge of the closed off area. They both looked up at him, their expressions set somewhere between confused, annoyed, irritated and slightly afraid. Right. That was... odd? Greg took a deep breath to steady himself. This was about to get nasty.

"It is hardly my fault you're lacking in the intelligence department! Now, kindly let me get on with my day, would you? I've got better things to do than argue with predictable idiots!"

Greg stopped short at the deep, condescending voice and carefully peeked around the edge of the building instead of walking straight to the source of the shouting. The sight that presented itself was not something he'd been expecting.

There was no mob of vulturous journalists and reporters anywhere to be found. No distraught relatives or noisy neighbours. Not even those couple of hardcore fans of that famous chef guy on the telly who had taken to following the Yarders around ever since they'd arrested the man for tax fraud.

There was _one_ man. One single man wearing a look which would have caused everyone subjected to it to drop dead. If such a thing were scientifically possible. Greg suddenly wasn't absolutely sure anymore if it wasn't.

"Sir, I have to ask you to walk around the corded off area," PC Murphy tried, his voice desperate and wavering. Poor sod.

Gregson apparently wasn't the only one about to go on a killing spree. The curly-haired stranger snarled and fixed his narrowed eyes on Murphy. Greg took a preemptive step closer, intentionally walking into the raging man's line of sight. He was ignored.

"How long are you and your wife 'taking a break', then? She's currently staying with her... sister? Ah, no. Her cousin, I see. Is it because of your gambling habit or your porn addiction?"

Greg knew he should intervene, of course he did. And he was going to, of course he was. _But._ Well, the man was right. Creepy, yes. But right too. Murphy had gotten a warning for coming in late again the other day. After that, it had only been a matter of time until the office gossip had reached Greg and the rumours were pretty much what had been thrown at Murphy just now.

"Sir, I'm-"

"No worries, she's unaware that it is gay porn. She would have left for good if she knew."

Murphy's jaw dropped. Greg automatically mimicked the gesture.

"I... I'm not... _gay!_ " the PC hissed angrily, his face turning an interesting shade of purple.

That seemed to amuse the other man. His lips curved up into a wicked little smile, pink tongue darting out to lick at the corner of his mouth. Murphy followed the movement and swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing.

"Got'cha," the stranger laughed and had the gall to blow the mortified PC a kiss.

"All right, that's quite enough of that," Greg intervened. He nodded at Murphy, who quickly scrambled away with a relieved sort of sigh-sob-whimper. Then he turned back to the other man. "You, get out of here. You're disrupting police work-"

"You call _this_ working?" The infuriating mob of dark curls snorted and quirked an unimpressed eyebrow. "You got almost everything wrong."

Greg tensed and straightened up, suddenly alert. "Oh?"

There was a moment of silence where the younger man seemed to consider something. Then, after a deep breath, he launched into a monologue of quick-fire explanations laced with so many details no one outside the force should know about that Greg had him cuffed and pressed face first against his cruiser before the last word was even out of his mouth.

The stranger sighed and rolled his eyes. "Oh and I am not the murderer, in case you were wondering," he spat sarcastically.

"Yeah, we'll see about that," Greg murmured and turned him around, hooking a finger under his chin to lift up his face. "What are you on?"

"Cocaine. Mostly. I think. Maybe."

"What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

It was Greg's turn to snort. "Is that even a real name?"

'Sherlock' shrugged as much as his bound hands would allow and leaned back against the car, raking his eyes up and down the sergeant's body. "I've been told that I've got a lovely mouth. Well, as long as it's occupied with something beside talking."

"What-"

"I'll suck you off right here, right now if you let me go afterwards."

Greg opened the back door and gave the man a little push. "Get in."

Sherlock smirked. "Is that a no?"

_"Now!"_

* * *

"Come on, up you get," Greg urged, his voice gentle but firm.

Sherlock Holmes - which _was_ the man's real name - lay with an arm draped over his eyes, the other hanging lazily over the edge of the small bed. His coat had been made into a make-shift pillow, revealing skinny arms and a slim torso only covered by a vest which, frankly, had seen better days.

"Mr Holmes-"

"What for?" Sherlock sighed dramatically, but remained motionless. "I've already told you everything you need to know in order to solve your pathetically transparent case. And I still refuse to make a statement about my charges. Stop bothering me."

"This isn't about the case or your arrest, Mr Holmes. You are being released."

That got the strange man's attention. He was up in a flash, his pale, otherwordly eyes narrowed at Greg. "What? Why? You people usually keep me here until morning. For my own _safety_." He spat the last word as he began to pace the narrow space of the drunk cell. Then he suddenly stopped and whirled around, lips pulled back into a snarl. " _Mycroft._ This is Mycroft, isn't it? The fat, interfering bastard! _Ugh!_ "

Greg opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again when words failed him. Then he repeated that process several times. "Who is My-"

"Tell my brother to mind his own affairs and keep his abnormally large nose out of my business!" Sherlock snapped and flopped back down on the thin mattress. He pointedly turned his back towards Greg.

"You would rather spend the night in here than accept your brother's help?" Greg asked, incredulous but also strangely intrigued, and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Sherlock groaned and craned his neck to glare at the sergeant. "Go. Away!"

Greg raised a patient eyebrow at him. "I have all night," he shrugged, then crossed his arms over his chest. "But, to be perfectly honest with you, I'd much rather spend it at home in my own bed than in here waiting for you. I have no idea who your brother is and I don't give a crap either. You're being released under my surveillance and it would be greatly appreciated if you could get your skinny arse up, out of this cell and into my car."

Sherlock blinked owlishly at him. Greg had obviously taken him by surprise, which was oddly satisfying. "You want to take me home with you?"

"No, I _will_ take you home with me."

"Changed your mind about the blow job, then?" the younger man smirked and practically flew across the room, backing Greg against the wall.

With a steady hand against the man's chest, Greg pushed him away a good few steps. "This is highly inappropriate, Mr Holmes."

"Oh, shush," Sherlock practically purred, pressing himself against the wide-eyed police officer. The twinkle in his eyes was more than a little unsettling. "I won't tell," he whispered and closed the distance between their mouths.

And _oh_ , the man knew what he was doing. Greg's body gave an involuntary shudder when Sherlock's hands came to rest on his waist. A clever tongue was probing at the seam of his lips, which thankfully snapped him out of his shocked daze.

"Stop that," Greg ordered firmly and grabbed Sherlock's upper arms, forcing him back. The younger man appeared genuinely confused by the rejection. After a moment of intense staring, he dropped his forehead against Greg's shoulder with a pained moan.

"I'm dizzy," he announced, rubbing his cheek against the police officer's uniform shirt.

Greg barked out a laugh, awkwardly patting his back. "No wonder, you're high as a kite. Come on, let's get you sorted out," he said softly, more or less carrying Sherlock's whole weight as they made their way out of the station.

"You had pie for dinner," Sherlock mumbled, letting himself be bundled into the back of Greg's car. He didn't seem to have much control left over his limbs.

"What kind of pie?" Greg asked, amused, and took his place behind the wheel.

"Apple. With cinnamon and an extra helping of whipped cream."

The older man chuckled and adjusted the rearview mirror. "Home made or bought?"

"Bought, obviously. At the corner shop down the street from the Yard."

"Were you stalking me?" Greg demanded, only half kidding. He met Sherlock's eyes in the mirror's reflection.

Sherlock sniffed, offended. "Of course not."

"Lucky guess, then."

The grin he got in response was dropdead gorgeous and borderline manic. "Oh, I never guess."

* * *

"Gregory?" a woman in her early thirties asked, carefully peeking down the stairs. She caught sight of Sherlock and quickly made to pull her night gown tighter around herself. "Are you all right? Who's this?"

"Friend from work. Had a bit too much to drink," Greg lied, struggling to keep the swaying man in his arms upright. "Just letting him sleep it off in the guest room."

The woman visibly relaxed. "Oh, that's-"

"I'm an addict he arrested earlier in the night and who offered to suck him off if he let me go with a warning. To be fair, though, he stopped me after a bit of snogging," Sherlock interrupted with a devilish grin and a nod in her direction. "Sherlock Holmes, it is _such_ a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Lestrade."

"Jesus," Greg sighed and rubbed his free hand over his eyes. "Genie, go back to bed. Please? We'll talk in the morning, yeah?"

The woman, lips pursed and cheeks burning red, turned on her heels and marched back down the hall. A door slammed shut a moment later.

"She seems nice," Sherlock drawled. He rested his chin on Greg's shoulder and smiled up at the older man, the perfect picture of innocence. "Did I get you in trouble? I'm _so_ sorry."

"What the bloody fucking fuck is wrong with you?" Greg hissed, dragging Sherlock along by the elbow. "Was that really necessary?"

"Was it really necessary to bring me here?" Sherlock countered and quirked a challanging eyebrow.

"I'm trying to help-"

The younger man groaned, frustrated. "Have you considered, even for a moment, that I don't want your help?"

"Well, too bad, 'cause you're getting it!" Greg snapped and pushed him down on the bed. He kneeled in front of the shivering idiot and began working on his buttons.

"I can undress myself."

"No, you can't," Greg sighed tiredly, slipping that ridiculously dramatic coat off his boney shoulders. "You can barely sit up straight."

Sherlock scowled, but didn't protest any further. He struggled to keep his eyes open as the sergeant tugged off his vest and freed him of his boots and trousers.

"Why are you doing this? Is your marriage in such a bad state that you decided to get yourself a pet project?"

Greg straightened up and went over to the dresser in the corner. "Put that on," he said and threw a t-shirt in the other man's general direction. "Be right back."

Sherlock debated destroying the thing just to be difficult. But the beginnings of withdrawal had him shivering and he quickly pulled it on before burying himself under the covers. This was marginally better than the drunk cell, he decided with a yawn. He'd wait until the older man had gone to bed - or the sofa, depending on how pissed his wife was - and sneak out. Maybe raid the fridge and wallets first.

"Drink this."

Pulling back the warm fabric covering his head, Sherlock blinked open one of his eyes. Greg was sitting on the floor next to him, holding out a glass of water.

"I'm not thirsty," he grumbled, ignoring his dry throat.

"Yes, you are," the older man insisted. Infuriating bastard. Glaring to make sure his disagreement was made clear, Sherlock pushed himself back up. He leaned against the headboard and accepted the drink, sipping it slowly.

"You were right," Greg said quietly, resting his own head against the wall.

"I always am," Sherlock smirked haughtily. Then asked, "About what?"

Greg chuckled. "The case."

"Ah. Obviously."

They sat in silence, watching each other for several long minutes.

"May I ask you something?" Greg shifted closer and placed his chin on his crossed arms on the bed.

"You'll ask even if I say no, won't you?"

"Yes."

"Fine," Sherlock sighed and settled back down, his face only a couple of centimetres away from Greg's. The man had turned out to be somewhat less annoying than the general population. And he didn't seem to be overly fazed by Sherlock's deductions. Which was unusual.

"Why do you do it? The drugs, I mean?"

"They're helping me focus," Sherlock said honestly, tapping the side of his head. "It's like a storm up here. Always loud, never quiet. It's hateful."

Greg hummed vaguely.

"And I get bored."

That caused a ripple of laughter from the older man. "That's the shittiest excuse I've ever heard."

"Not an excuse, it's true," Sherlock murmured sulkily.

"All right, fine." Greg held up his hands in surrender. "What if I provided you with something that helped with the boredom?"

Sherlock schooled his expression into one of blankness to hide his sparked interest. "Like what?"

"Puzzles. Your observational skills are something else. You solved that case earlier without even looking at any of the evidence. I could give you access to some files, maybe a few crime scenes if that works out. Nothing official, of course, but still."

"What's the catch?" There was always a catch.

Greg shot him a sad smile. "I can't have you run around with me while you're high."

There it was. "So you'll break every law restricting civilians from entering crime scenes and reviewing police evidence if I clean up my act and stay sober?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

Greg shrugged a bit with one shoulder. "Because I care. About the victims, about getting to the bottom of things. Seems you could help us achieve that a hell of a lot faster."

He jumped in surprise when Sherlock reached out and ran a finger along his temple.

"You're strange."

"You're one to talk," Greg grinned, brushing some sweaty curls away from the younger man's eyes. "So, how about it?"

"You'll get in trouble if your superiors find out," Sherlock pointed out.

"I know."

"I'll drive you mad."

"Probably."

"People don't like me. I'm obtrusive, insulting and have no regard for personal space or social norms."

"I noticed, yeah."

"You're an idiot for even suggesting this."

"Is that a yes?"

Sherlock couldn't help his lips from twitching. "Maybe."

"Good enough," Greg smiled and plucked the younger man's hand away from his face. He gave it a little squeeze before placing it on the mattress. "Try to get some rest."

For once, Sherlock complied. He wandered around his mind palace in a drug-induced half sleep, filing and cleaning. Through the foggyness of his residual high he registered a press of warm lips against his head, but when he managed to opened his eyes after what felt like eons, Greg was on the floor, sleeping.

Stretching one of his arms, he let it fall over the edge of the bed and placed his palm flat against the older man's neck. Greg hummed and Sherlock smiled, closing his eyes again.

* * *

_Present day_

Greg ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls and wrapped his free arm around the detective's waist. He'd often wondered how much Sherlock remembered of their first encounter. Sherlock had always seemed repulsed by the mere mention of intimate physical contact, so Greg had never mentioned the kiss or the aggressive sexual behaviour. He'd put it down to the drugs. People did strange things while high.

He had seldomly been gladder to be proven wrong, though. Sherlock was definitely enjoying intimacy, sprawled out across Greg's chest as he was at the moment. He was insecure and hurting, that much was obvious, but Greg was nothing if not patient. And Sherlock Holmes wasn't the only one who liked to solve puzzles.

"Shut up."

"Been thinking too loud?" Greg chuckled, rubbing his nose into the younger man's hair. Sherlock grumbled sleepily and pressed a kiss to Greg's jaw.

The fire had gone out a while ago and the floor was hard, despite the rug and blankets. Sherlock was heavy on top of him, puffing damp breaths against his neck, and their position was bound to have them both hurting in the morning.

Greg really shouldn't have been comfortable. He was, though.


	7. Misunderstanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has some baggage and it shows. There is a bittersweet conversation with his sons and Sherlock is actually behaving nicely for once.

**Misunderstanding**

Greg stirred and tried to stretch, groaning at the sharp bolt of pain shooting through the muscles in his lower back. Right. Sleeping on the floor and being forty-six years old were a decidedly bad combination.

With a heavy sigh he buried his face back in one of the pillows and pulled the quilt closer around himself. He could hear Sherlock clattering about in the kitchen, probably already absorbed in one of his ongoing 'experiments'. Greg preferred to use the term loosely. He wasn't particularly inclined to accept 'setting toenails on fire' or 'using the stove to cremate monkey glands' as science, but well. Who was he, a mere Detective Inspector and protector of the law, to judge the genius intellect of the great Sherlock Holmes?

He chuckled to himself and attempted another stretch, this one significantly more successful than the first. After a moment of blind groping und fumbling around, his fingers closed around Sherlock's mobile and he tapped at the screen, hissing at the brightness of it. Just after ten in the morning. He tossed the phone back down. Much too early to even think about getting up with no kids to pester him for presents.

Then again, he would most likely be sore and hurting all over if he didn't move away from the hardwood floor soon. What were the chances of him persuading Sherlock to abandon whatever he was currently destroying in order to move to the bed and have a proper cuddle and lie-in, Greg was wondering, when he heard the man in question's deep, rumbling laugh.

Huh. With great effort, Greg rolled onto his stomach and squinted in the general direction of the sound. Sherlock was, in fact, bent over the kitchen table and seemed to be prodding at something which looked suspiciously like some kind of organ. Hopefully one of animal and not human origin. He was also talking and it took Greg's drowsy, sleep-addled mind a moment to realise the detective was talking to someone on the phone.

 _Greg's_ mobile phone.

_Oh god!_

His mobile with the phone numbers of almost every person working at New Scotland Yard, the e-mail and home addresses of several lawyers, judges and politicians and tons of other highly confidential files Sherlock would just die to get his hands on.

Greg scrambled up and darted over to the kitchen, cursing under his breath when his back protested the sudden movement. Sherlock looked up from whatever unspeakable thing he was playing with when he heard the older man approach. His wide smile faltered at Greg's thunderous expression and he actually shrank back in his chair.

"Are-"

"What are you doing with my phone?" Greg hissed and held out his hand. Sherlock obediently dropped the mobile into the waiting palm, his expression stuck somewhere between confused and a bit scared.

"It kept ringing," Sherlock offered sheepishly, staring down at his bare toes.

Greg quickly checked the caller ID. His ex mother in law. The boys. He winced, unsure if that was better or worse than Sherlock using his contacts to bully the people down at the Met into allowing him onto crime scenes.

"I wasn't-"

The older man held up a hand, effectively silencing the detective. "Luc? Yeah, fine. Was still asleep. Listen, I'll call you right back, okay? Yes, Joyeux Noël. Okay, bye." 

"It kept ringing and you were sleeping," Sherlock mumbled apologetically and completely out of character.

"You have absolutely no business answering my phone!" Greg barked angrily, rubbing a shaking hand over his face.

"You like to sleep in when you have the time to spare and you looked exhausted when you came over yesterday. It kept ringing and then the texts started and I saw that they were from your son, so the next time I picked up to tell him you weren't up yet and that I'd let you know to ring him back. Lucian knows me, it was hardly like he was talking to a stranger or-"

"That's beside the point, Sherlock!" the older man snapped, bringing his fist down on the table. A thankfully empty beaker tipped over and Sherlock visibly jumped. "It's about boundaries, all right? You don't answer my phone or my texts or my mails or anything of the sort. Period. Do we understand each other here?"

Sherlock shut his mouth with an audible _plop_ and got up, looking anywhere but at Greg. "Apologies," he said quietly before turning and quickly fleeing out of the kitchen. His bedroom door opened and then shut again a moment later, followed by silence.

Greg stood, still staring at the spot Sherlock had been in a few seconds before. He had expected shouting and eye-rolling and a general aura of haughtiness and righteousness. Not this uncontested acceptance. Now that he thought about it, Sherlock had looked crushed. And, if he didn't know better, Greg would say he'd been close to tears. And afraid. Of him.

 _Jesus!_ Greg had many flaws, but he could admit it to himself when he'd overreacted. Which he clearly had just now. What the bloody hell had gotten into him?

No, stupid question. Trust and anger issues, his therapist would say. The therapist his superior had forced him to see after a total meltdown and vicious shouting match with Sally. Who the fuck wouldn't have trust issues after being cheated on repeatedly for nearly twenty years? Who the fuck wouldn't be furious to be kicked out of their own house, the house _they_ had paid for, by their total bitch of an ex-wife who only fought for custody of their joint children to hurt them? He had every fucking right to be hurt and mistrustful!

Only that wasn't really how it worked in the real world. Greg groaned and flopped down in one of the empty chairs, anger dissipating and only leaving an empty, hollow feeling behind.

So much for being patient and coaxing Sherlock into sharing. One step forward and about a gazillion steps back, Greg thought, and furiously rubbed at his eyes.

Sherlock had stolen approximately twenty of his badges and countless lighters, cigarettes and other knick-knacks from him over the years. If he'd really wanted Greg's phone, he could have taken it at any given time - which he hadn't. And he'd always been considerate enough not to use the badges in any situations that could get Greg into trouble, he never did show the name on them. Not that this made it right, but it did make it a little less wrong in Greg's books.

_'You push people away, Greg. People who love you and care for you. You push them away with your anger and your inability to trust. It's not healthy.'_

Thank you Doctor Hamilton. It wasn't like he didn't know that, of course he did. The problem was letting go of the past and learning to be with people again. But, apparently, that was something no therapist could tell him how to achieve and he had to figure out for himself. Yeah, thank you so fucking much, Doctor.

He needed to apologise. If there was one thing Greg had learned while living with his ex, it was how to grovel for forgiveness. And this time it was even justified.

Greg got up and went over to the cabinets, looking for tea. The least he could do was make the other man a nice cuppa. He winced and his throat closed up with shame and guilt when he spotted the mug already sitting on the counter. Sherlock's was still on the table, which meant this one was intended for him. Sherlock, being the attentive git that he was, had most likely heard him starting to wake up and had prepared it for him. Greg took a sip and almost cursed at how perfect it was.

Sherlock had realised how knackered he'd been the day before. Sherlock had let him sleep in. Sherlock had made him tea. And Sherlock had talked to his son, a boy who idolised the detective and never shut up about him for even a minute, and calmed him down after Greg hadn't answered the phone for hours.

And in turn he'd scared the shit out of Sherlock and probably destroyed every chance he'd ever had with the genius.

"Well done, you fucking idiot," Greg berated himself and banged his head against the fridge. It didn't help.

* * *

_"Papa! Happy Christmas!"_ Luc's excited voice came through the speaker the moment the call connected.

Greg's lips twitched up into a small smile. After a cup of tea with a shot of scotch - oh come on, it was Christmas, for fuck's sake! - he'd finally managed to calm himself down. His first instinct had been to storm into Sherlock's room and beg for forgiveness. Then he'd remembered that he wasn't actually a teenage girl and would probably only make a fool of himself. A few minutes to cool off would do them both good, Greg had mused, and decided to talk to his sons before they were whisked off to some other relative to celebrate.

"Happy Christmas, buddy. How-"

There was an annoyed grunt on the other end of the line, followed by some whining and screeching and finally a victorious sort of noise from Gabriel.

 _"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!"_ the five-year-old chanted happily, then suddenly remembered the date and added a more sedated _"Joyeux Noël."_

"And to you too, peanut," Greg chuckled. "So, come on. Tell me what Father Christmas brought you this year."

He could practically hear the eye-roll that statement earned him. _"I am not a baby,"_ Gabriel protested, sounding mortally offended. _"I know you and mum bought our present-_ HEY! _"_

 _"He did_ so _not,"_ Luc smugly informed his father. _"He hid behind the tree the whole night to wait and make sure."_

Okay, so maybe Greg didn't miss this particular part of spending time with his boys. He'd forgotten about the endless bickering.

Gabriel gasped somewhere in the background and managed to convey just exactly how scandalised he was with that one small sound. God, his youngest was a bloody drama queen already, Greg thought in bemusement. He was in for some real trouble during the boy's teenage years.

_"Did not!"_

_"Did too!"_

"All right, come on, now," Greg tried to calm them down. "I know you're bursting to boast about all the new crap that's going to lie about my flat soon."

Luc laughed, therefore failing spectacularly when he started chastising his father. _"Mum says you swear too much in front of us."_

 _"Mum's not here, though, is she?"_ Gabriel piped up again. The cheek of the boy, honestly. Greg would deny it until the day he died, but he absolutely enjoyed his youngest's antics and how they never failed to rile up his ex. He'd never claimed to be perfect, all right?

 _"Idiot,"_ the eight-year-old snorted. Gabriel retorted with a snotty _"Wanker!"_ before he seemed to lose interest and his attention went back to his Nintendo, going by the sound of it.

Luc proceeded to list their presents and make sure Greg liked the drawings and cards he and Gabriel had sent - which Greg had, very much. They chatted about nothing in particular for several minutes, but apparently the universe really hated Greg at the moment.

_"Did you have a fight with Sherlock earlier?"_

Greg sighed and closed his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I kinda did. But it's fine, don't worry about it."

 _"Was it about a case?"_ the boy asked hopefully, barely containing his excitement. He adored Sherlock, always had. Gabriel wasn't really old enough to remember the detective, but the older brother had been subjected to some of Sherlock's peculiarities over the years. And thrown up on the man once, which was, to this very day, one of the funniest things Greg had ever had the pleasure to witness.

There was a short silence where Luc contemplated and came to a conclusion. _"Or did you have a domestic?"_

Greg very nearly dropped the phone before he managed to splutter an answer. "We're not... how... why would you ask that?"

_"He said you came by yesterday to talk about stuff and then it was late so you had a sleepover. Only grown-ups don't have sleepovers, it's what mum says when she doesn't want us to know that she's going to Mark's-"_

"Who's Mark?"

Luc made a disgusted sound. _"New boyfriend."_

 _"He's a twat!"_ Gabriel provided helpfully.

That made... what? The third one in as many months? Jesus.

 _"Whatever,"_ Luc interrupted his brother. _"It's what she tells us when she goes to see him to kiss and cuddle and all that stuff."_

"How do you even now about _all that stuff_?" Greg groaned, rubbing at his forehead.

 _"Oh,_ please! _"_ the eight-year-old puffed. _"So? Is Sherlock your new boyfriend?"_

May as well take the chance, Greg thought with a shrug. "Would that be okay with you? If he were?"

_"Yeah, sure. I like Sherlock."_

"That's not-"

_"It doesn't matter that he's a boy, papa. You told us some people like boys, some like girls and some like both. And that it's all fine. So it's okay with us. Right Gabe?"_

_"Uh-huh,"_ came the absent reply from the videogame-playing boy.

When had the babies he'd been able to cradle in one arm become so smart? "I love you, bud. You and your brother both. Very much."

 _"I know,"_ Luc said softly, smile audible in his voice. _"We love you, too."_

 _"Me more than him!"_ Gabriel yelled.

 _"Tu nous manques beaucoup, papa,"_ Luc sighed after a moment.

Yep, one of these days Greg was going to bitch-slap his ex. "I miss you guys, too. Tell you what. The first weekend you're back we're going to the country, just the three of us. How's that sound?"

_"That's ni-"_

_"Boys! Come on, put on your coats! Lucian, hang up the phone, we're going to be late to your aunt Miranda's."_

Luc sighed again. _"Mum says we have to go. Can I call you again when we get back later?"_

"Sure, absolutely. Anytime."

_"See you soon, papa. Love you."_

"You too. Give your brother a kiss for me."

_"Gross!"_

"Go on, then. Don't keep your mother waiting," Greg chuckled, listening to another round of _"Bye!"_ and _"Love you!"_ before the line went dead.

With a renewed boost of energy, Greg got up and flicked on the kettle. He went to rummage through the bag he'd brought while the water boiled and took out the small package he'd been nervous about for weeks now. Time to make things right with Sherlock. It wouldn't do to disappoint his son by not even trying to get the genius to be his boyfriend.

* * *

Sherlock had his back to the door when Greg slipped into his room half an hour later.

Balancing a cup of tea in one hand and the package in the other, Greg sat down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock still didn't turn and kept ignoring the older man. He deserved as much, Greg supposed. He put everything down on the bedside table and gingerly placed one of his now free hands on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Hey," Greg said quietly. "I'm sorry. I was way out of line and I shouldn't have yelled at you like that."

Sherlock shrugged as much as his position would allow and pressed his face into one of the pillows.

"No, seriously. That was not okay and I really am sorry. Thanks for the tea, by the way."

"It's fine," Sherlock mumbled. Greg could feel him relax a fraction under his hand and smiled.

"No, it's not fine. It's far from fine." With a bit of manoeuvring, Greg managed to pull back the covers and slide underneath them. He curled up against Sherlock's back, slinging an arm over his side to hold him close. "You did nothing wrong, Sherlock. You tried to do something nice for me and I went and behaved like a complete arsehole."

Sherlock hummed vaguely, but pressed back against Greg.

"I'm not good with... trust, I guess," the older man admitted with a shuddering sigh. He burrowed his nose in Sherlock's curls, whispering the next part against his scalp. "But that's no excuse to treat you like shit and I'm sorry. Like, really, really, really-"

Sherlock rolled over and brought their lips together. "Yes, I get it," he breathed against Greg's mouth and settled one hand on the man's hip.

"Forgive me?" Greg pleaded, widening his eyes and blinking rapidly.

"Whoever told you that spastic eye-twitching was adorable lied to you, Detective Inspector."

"I'm wounded," Greg gasped in mock-exasperation, laughing when Sherlock levelled him with a half fond, half irritated look before claiming another kiss. He brought his arms around the curly-haired genius and tugged him flat against his chest, entangling their legs while struggling to keep their mouths locked together. Which didn't work, but neither of them really minded, both trading quick nips and licks instead.

Sherlock made a noise of protest when Greg finally broke away. He buried his face in the man's chest in an attempt to keep him from moving, using all his weight to cling to him.

"Sherlock, get off."

"That's what I'm trying to do, yes."

"Oh my... was that innuendo? Christ, that's hot."

"You're ridiculous," Sherlock decided, curving his lips down into a pout when Greg eventually managed to get free. "What are you doing?"

"Happy Christmas!" the older man beamed as he turned back, handing over the parcel.

Sherlock sat up and blinked owlishly at him. "You got me a Christmas present?"

"Shut up and open it," Greg snapped and blushed. Maybe he _was_ a teenage girl after all. The detective didn't notice the slight discomfort, however, already tearing away wrapping paper and carelessly disposing it on the floor.

His eyes grew wide when he pulled free the book and a manila folder stuffed with papers and notes. "The Voynich manuscrip," he murmured, awed, and stroked a finger over the cover. He reached for the folder and began emptying to contents on the bed.

"Friend who works in the archives of the University of Arizona owed me a favour. He sent me copies of their radiocarbon dating results. He, in turn, knows someone working at the McCrone Research Institute in Chicago who was able to get him copies of... you stopped listening the moment I handed you the damn thing, didn't you?"

The only answer was a grunt that could have been acknowledgement. Or Sherlock clearing his throat. No way to be sure.

Smiling to himself, Greg shifted until his head was propped up against the younger man's shoulder and he was able to read along. Sherlock, suddenly remembering his presence, lifted his arm to let Greg settle against his chest. He nuzzled into the greying hair, sighing contentedly, and went back to browsing the lab research with Greg nestled comfortably against him.

Which was a fabulous way to spend Christmas morning, Greg resolved.


	8. Clarifying

** Clarifying **

In retrospect, none of this was even moderately surprising. He should have known it would happen sooner or later, Greg thought. He should have fucking known it. Actually, what had taken the meddling bastard so bloody long? Now _that_ was a good question if he'd ever heard one!

Not that he was happy about this, god no. But he should have seen it coming. He'd turned up in his office the day after Greg had taken Sherlock in for the first time. He'd sat down opposite him in the waiting room half an hour after Sherlock had been seriously hurt working on a case for the Yard and been sent to the hospital for emergency surgery. And, cheekiest of all, he'd knocked on Greg's door in the middle of the night when Sherlock had run away from the rehab clinic because he'd had 'suspicions' that his wayward brother might have fled to Greg's house. Which had been true, but that was completely beside the point.

So it was no bloody wonder Mycroft had summoned him after Greg had enjoyed a very pleasant yet embarrassingly public snog with his baby brother. Or, at least, that's what Greg suspected this whole nuisance was about. He rang the bell and snorted in wry amusement. Mycroft Holmes, drama queen extraordinaire.

"Your husband is the most obnoxious prick in the universe," Greg complained in way of greeting when the door opened and swept inside after accepting the two cheek kisses.

"How incredibly rude of you," Niels tsked, but winked at the annoyed police officer. He gestured for Greg to follow him to the lounge.

"He isn't here yet, is he?" Greg asked and groaned when Niels shook his head. "You know, he could at least show me some common decency and show up if he orders me here in the middle of a shift. What does he think I do all day, drink coffee and surf the web? I've got shit to do, you know," he grumbled irritably, earning himself a highly sympathetic smile from the other man.

"He is used to everyone rearranging their schedules to accommodate him. He is terribly spoilt in that matter, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, no shit," Greg sighed, leaning back in his seat. "I blame you, you know," he added and pointed an accusing finger.

Niels gasped in mock-shock and raised an eyebrow at him. "I like to imagine that he has become significantly less uppity and much more manageable due to my influence."

"Ha, yeah. Keep on dreamin', sweetheart," the silver-haired man snorted, prompting them both into a fit of childish laughter. This, Greg thought, was the one reason he actually enjoyed visiting Mycroft's stupidly posh townhouse; a Detective Inspector and a Dutch diplomat in their forties, giggling like schoolgirls over none other than the man who ran the British government. And the Secret Service. Maybe the CIA, too, sometimes.

"He's going to be in a mood for _days_ after watching the footage of this," Niels sighed and wiped at the corner of his eye, still chuckling.

Greg shrugged in a _'not my problem'_ sort of way, earning himself a glare that would have been significantly more impressive if the other man had not been struggling to keep his face from breaking out into a huge grin.

Oh, and Niels van Leeuwenhoek could be intimidating, despite the silly name. Greg knew _that_ from personal experience. He'd learned it the hard way that drunkenly hitting on the fit bloke with the cute accent, lovely blonde curls and bright blue eyes was not something said bloke appreciated overly much. He crossed his legs and winced at the memory. It had been even worse to wake up the following morning and not only be hurting all over, but also finding a fuming and jealous Mycroft waiting for him in his sitting room.

Niels had been a good sport, though, laughing the whole incident off and scolding Mycroft for making Greg think he was going to be deported to Antarctica. Or worse; Wales. How had he been supposed to know the uptight politician could score someone so open and fun and likeable? Even Sherlock got along relatively well with his brother-in-law. Not that he'd ever admit it, but they all knew it.

"You're way too good for him anyway," Greg decided, revelling in the faint blush that statement brought on in the other man.

"And you are a terrible flirt," Niels tutted as he got up at the sound of the front door being unlocked. "But yes, I absolutely am," he smirked and briefly pecked the entering Mycroft on the lips before swishing out of the room.

"How nice of you to finally show, I'm honoured," Greg drawled, ignoring Mycroft's suspiciously narrowed eyes.

"You appear to be in surprisingly good spirits."

"Ah, you know. Gossiping usually does that to a person, yeah."

Mycroft sniffed and wrinkled his nose as he sat down in his husband's vacated seat. "And what, pray tell, was the subject of your asinine ramblings?"

Greg smiled sweetly. "Why, _you_ , of course."

Mycroft blanched and _oh_ , what a precious sight that was.

* * *

"You know, _this_ doesn't technically qualify as helping," John grouched, gesturing at Sherlock's sprawled out form on the bed.

The detective shrugged indifferently. "This whole endeavour is completely and utterly ridiculous."

"Yes, my moving in with my soon-to-be wife is such an unexpected and surprising turn of events," the doctor mocked and threw a pillow at his pouting friend's head. "You knew this was coming, don't be a dick about it."

Sherlock humpfed and turned, facing away from the other man.

John rolled his eyes at the overgrown child and continued emptying his wardrobe. "We decided to wait until after the wedding-"

"It is indecent for a bachelor and a maiden to live together in sin, John."

"Yeah, well. This is the twenty-first century, in case you haven't noticed," the blonde snorted in amusement. "We decided to wait until after the wedding since the house wasn't ready anyway. But you knew this was coming, you have known for ages."

Sherlock remained silent and John, biting his bottom lip, sat down on the edge of the mattress.

"Sherlock, come on. We'll still be working on cases together, I'll still be coming over all the time to annoy you into eating and all the other tedious and mundane stuff you forget to do occasionally."

"Yes, I know, John," the detective mumbled, voice muffled by the pillow he'd pushed his face into.

"Then why are you behaving like the world's about to end?" the doctor demanded, plucking at a loose thread on the belt of Sherlock's dressing gown.

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder as much as that was possible in his current position.

John sighed and nudged his side, rubbing a gentle hand along the detective's ribs. "Nothing's going to change-"

" _Everything_ is going to change!" Sherlock snapped angrily, whirling back around to glare at his friend. "Marriage changes people, John. It does, don't try and deny it," he sneered, holding up a hand to halt John's protest. "There will be a honeymoon and dates and other couples and babies and you will love it. You will be happy and your life will be normal; a wife, a house, two kids and a dog. Like you always dreamed. And that's all right, that's fine. That's how it's supposed to go, isn't it? But it's not going to be _our_ life, so don't go and tell me that nothing will change, John, because it will!"

"Sherlock-"

"Don't. Just... _don't_ ," the curly-haired man spat and tried to get up, only to find John's arm around his waist, holding him in place. "John," he said warningly. "Let go of me."

"You're an idiot," John chuckled and slid closer, resting his chin on Sherlock's shoulder and circling his arms around the other man's chest. Sherlock huffed offended and squirmed a bit in the doctor's grasp to show his displeasure before he stilled and clasped John's hand with his own, suddenly afraid the other man would leave if he let go. "You're my best friend and I love you. You know that, right?" John whispered into his ear before moving to press a kiss to the back of his head, speaking his next words into Sherlock's hair. "And I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that you're not a priority. Because you are. Granted, there are other people beside you and other things beside the Work that I value a great deal, but that doesn't make you any less important. You're right, I can't promise you that nothing's ever going to change, but I can promise you that you and your friendship will always be absolutely essential to my happiness."

"I know," Sherlock breathed, voice cracking and making it abundantly clear that he hadn't actually known. At all. He let himself lean back against his friend, who shifted and lowered them back down, both of them on their sides facing each other.

"You mad, ridiculous man," John smiled, reaching out to brush his hand over Sherlock's cheek before letting it rest against the younger man's neck.

"John," Sherlock murmured, lips twitching upwards as he curled against his friend, tucking his head under the doctor's chin. John's arms came up automatically to hold the detective close, the hand not sandwiched between them stroking up and down his spine. "You know I'm no expert when it comes to what society deems appropriate or proper, but I believe this right here constitutes as something not usually involved in platonic relationships and is one of those things that make people think we're engaging in sexual activities."

"Ah, well. What would they do with their lives if it weren't for us and our heterosexually-ambiguous partnership, eh?" John laughed teasingly and buried his face in Sherlock's curls, tightening his hold on the younger man. He could feel Sherlock chuckle against his chest, a deep, low and warmly familiar rumbling. "We should get up and finish packing. The others will be here in an hour," he groaned, but made no attempt to move.

Sherlock made a sound of open disgust. "John, I don't believe that-"

"You are coming along," John interrupted quickly, chuckling and pressing his complaining friend's face into his chest to shut him up. "It's my stag-do and I want you there. I want to see you absolutely pissed at least once in my life, is that too much to ask?"

"Yes," Sherlock deadpanned, voice muffled against John's shirt, but the grin tugging at his lips betrayed a layer of hidden amusement.

"Oh, shut up," the doctor laughed and rolled them over, stretching and sprawling out across the other man.

Sherlock huffed at the additional weight and dug his fingers into the flesh below John's ribs, pleased at the high-pitched squeal that earned him. "This is the exact opposite of getting up," he pointed out even as he wound his arms around John's shoulders, closing his eyes with a happy hum.

"In a minute," John murmured and snuggled closer, mimicking his friend's sounds of contentment.

* * *

"As much as I enjoy you staring at me with that weird, disconcerting look of yours, I think I'll take my leave now," Greg decided after almost ten minutes of awkward silence and made to get up.

Mycroft stopped him with a held up hand, waving at the sofa and quirking a stern eyebrow. Greg folded his arms across his chest, glared and, very pointedly, did not resume his seat.

"You are aware of the reason why I had you brought here, I assume?" the politician asked with his usual false politeness and crossed his legs.

Well, two could play that game, Greg thought with a sly grin. He relaxed his stance, hands on his hips, and tilted his head. "My devilishly good looks?" The sour expression on Mycroft's face was priceless. Maybe he should ask Niels to print him a copy of the moment from the security footage? He could put it on his desk at work to cheer him up whenever Sherlock caused an avalanche of paperwork with his careless approach to crime scenes. It would only be fair, after all.

"This is a serious matter, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said tightly, lips pursed, forming a thin, white line.

"Back to formalities, is it, Mr Holmes?" Greg mocked, growing annoyed with this whole pointless charade. "Fine, then. Go on, get it over with. Deliver your _'if you hurt my brother I will hurt you'_ speech and stop wasting my-"

"Oh, I thought that much was implied," Mycroft interrupted, rising gracefully and brushing some invisible lint off his jacket before taking a step closer to where Greg was standing. The other man swallowed hard, but refused to back down. "I need you to stay away from Sherlock. Bar any work related meetings, of course."

Greg blinked owlishly a few times, but no. Even after several long moments, he was still convinced he'd heard that right. "Excuse me?"

Mycroft was only a hair's breadth away by now, looking down at Greg with such fierce protectiveness visible on his face that it almost felt like one of those first creepy kidnappings to abandoned warehouses again. "You heard," the politician said with put-on calm and an insincere smile.

Greg gaped at him, only remembering to shut his mouth after his tongue began to feel dry. "Are you seriously threatening me right now?"

"Do I have to?"

"Your brother is a grown man, for fuck's sake!"

"That makes absolutely no difference."

"Of course it fucking does!" Greg snapped furiously, forgetting the not insignificant amount of fear still churning uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. "You can't control every aspect of his life, that's mad. And a little weird, to be perfectly honest."

"Everything I do is done out of honest concern for my brother's wellbeing," Mycroft hissed, upper lip pulled back in an ugly sneer. "I have grown to respect you, Gregory, which is the only reason I'm even bothering to give you this warning. There is no denying how much you helped Sherlock over the years, but this has gone too far. Your... _affections_ are not appreciated."

"Sherlock seems to enjoy them immensely," Greg barked and _shit_ , that had been a mistake, going by the rapid change of colour currently taking place on Mycroft's face.

"Five flings in the half year since your divorce went through?" the politician asked, his irritation almost palpable in the air around them.

"There's nothing wrong with having a bit of fun, all right?" the older man said defensively. It wasn't that he was proud of his current love life consisting, more or less, of quick fucks in pub toilets and semi-serious relationships lasting no longer than a weekend, two at the most. It was nothing to be ashamed about either, though.

"I refuse to offer my brother up as a piece of meat for you to have _'a bit of fun'_ with and throw away as soon as you find something more stimulating," Mycroft very nearly yelled, only a proper public school upbringing preventing him from actually raising his voice.

"That is not your fucking decision!" Greg shouted and threw his hands in the air in a gesture of exasperation. "It's mine and Sherlock's. And how dare you imply that he means so little to me? I've been there for your brother in every possible situation, no matter how embarrassing, dangerous or even impossible! I've risked my career and my life on countless occasions over the last decade and you know I don't regret a single one of them. I'd do it all over again. And again and again and again. Don't pretend you don't know how fucking much Sherlock means to me, you pretentious, arrogant, conceited arsehole!"

Greg glared, chest heaving with heavy, angry breaths while Mycroft took his turn gawking and being absolutely flabbergasted.

"You're in love," he whispered, sounding genuinely astounded.

"Shut up," Greg groaned, pressing his thumbs into his eyes and shaking his heads. "Just shut up for once."

Mycroft winced and pulled a face, grimacing a bit. "I may have misjudged your intentions. I must apologise for my-"

"Save it. I don't want to hear it," Greg sighed, already turning down the hall, quickly walking towards the foyer. God, that had been humiliating, to say the very least. He was stopped by an uncertain hand on his elbow just as he reached for the doorknob.

"My brother is very fond of you, has been for a very long time," Mycroft confessed, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "Don't take his feelings for you lightly, Gregory. He is more fragile than he would like for any of us to know."

"I won't, Mycroft. You know that. I'll do my best."

"Ah, well," Mycroft's lips twitched upwards slightly. "Going by your last serious relationship-"

"Oh, screw you!"

* * *

It was Mrs Hudson's shrill cries that woke John and Sherlock a good half hour later, two pairs of eyes snapping open simultaneously while two hearts almost skipped a beat at the unexpected noise.

Their landlady stood there, in the door of John's old room, one hand over her mouth and the other pressed against her chest, wearing a half flustered and half seriously displeased expression on her face.

"Doctor Watson," she chastised scornfully, wriggling a pointed finger in their general direction. "You are about to get married! Unbelievable, this, the two of you. You should be ashamed of yourselves! Poor Mary," she tsked and turned around to leave, muttering about unfaithful men and sky-rocketing divorce rates as she climbed back down the stairs.

"At least we know where the rumours are coming from," John yawned, grinning at their admittedly a bit implying position with their legs tangled and arms wrapped around each other, foreheads so close together they were practically breathing each other's breath. "Mary's going to keel over laughing when she hears about this. What's that, the second time this month someone's going to call her about my infidelity?"

"Third, I believe," Sherlock said, eyes twinkling in a mischievous answering smile. "It's ridiculous, really," he sniffed, putting on his most serious face. "You are not even my type."

"Fuck you," John laughed and punched the detective's upper arm, blinking innocently at the affronted gasp that earned him. "I'm striking."

Sherlock snorted, rolling away to duck another slap.

"Absolutely stunning," the doctor insisted and followed, easily pinning the detective again.

"Of course, John," Sherlock panted, nevertheless managing to make his voice drip with sarcasm.

"Blindingly handsome."

"Naturally."

"Unbelievably adorable."

"Undoubtedly."

"Extremely clever."

There was a pause. Then; "Don't push it."


	9. Drinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> STAG-DO!

** Drinking **

There were several types of drunks, as Sherlock came to learn over the course of John's stag-party. And, naturally, Sherlock could not let the ample opportunity to collect data on the drinking habits of such a delightfully diverse group of middle-aged men go to waste. So he started observing and cataloguing. Which, admittedly, would have gone a lot smoother if his own head hadn't been spinning and the pub and its patrons hadn't been all blurry and fuzzy around the edges.

But, being the curious scientist that he was, Sherlock could not be deterred. Not even by his childhood lisp making an appearance after pint four. Or the sudden realisation that everyone in the room seemed to have an identical twin attached to their sides after the second round of shots. Or the ruination of his favourite pair of trousers in the process of kneeling bent over a dirty pub toilet after he'd stopped being able to count the beers and shots and drinks with little umbrellas and pieces of fruit that tasted like pure sugar solution diluted with a drop of fruit juice.

Somewhere between pleasantly tipsy and pass out in an alley drunk Sherlock had, for a brief moment, wondered if his research might get compromised by his taking part in the experiment. The answer to which was a definite and resounding _'Yes!'_ , although that little fact would only be acknowledged the next morning. So, for the moment, the world's only consulting detective was perfectly happy with his wrong answer of _'No, that's silly, have another gin and tonic!'_ and watching his best friend and that friend's mates make complete fools of themselves and provide him with free entertainment.

Free entertainment he was going to enjoy in full just after he'd texted Greg. Texting Greg was imperative. Sherlock frowned at the mobile in his hand. Why was texting Greg so important?

With a shrug, he opened a new message and started typing, completely oblivious to the goofy smile playing about his lips.

* * *

Greg signed the last paper of his report with a relieved flourish before stuffing the whole thing back into a manila folder, slamming it shut and cramming the whole damn thing into his outbox with a little more force than strictly necessary. He reached for his mug and brought it to his lips, only to realise the coffee had grown cold and disgusting a while ago, the milk now swimming on top in crusty little flecks.

"Marvellous," Greg groaned and slammed the mug back down on his desk. Half of the light brown liquid sloshed over the brim and onto his keyboard, slowly but steadily making its way into the gaps from where it would be impossible to get out again. "For fuck's sake!"

The shout had been a bit louder than he'd intended it to come out and it took less than half a minute for Sally Donovan to knock on his office door and peek her head inside.

"Everything all right there, sir?" she asked, lips curling up at the sight of her boss helplessly dabbing at the mess in front of him with a piece of- "Is that a page of the Montgomery trial report?"

"What? No, that's just some spare-" Greg began, then looked down at the soaked piece of paper in his hand and let out a noise of pure frustration. He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. "Someone shoot me in the face. Please?"

Sally snorted. "Don't be dramatic," she said and rolled her eyes as she picked up his mug. "I'll get you some fresh coffee and then you're going to take a break. No, I'm not listening," she added quickly when the man tried to protest and simply turned around to leave. "Because with all due respect, _sir_ ; you look like shit."

Greg mumbled sulkily under his breath, but didn't try to stop her. Who was he to say no to a free cup of coffee? Besides, he realised after checking the time, he'd been sitting here for five straight hours and could really do with a bit of a rest. He leaned back in his chair, stretching stiff arms and legs with an appreciative hum.

He hadn't even been supposed to come in, he'd arranged to have the evening off to go celebrate with John and the others. But as it usually happened in this particular line of work, nothing had gone as planned. Criminals didn't follow a schedule and neither did the Chief Superintendent. Which was why he was sitting here instead of in a pub, why he was sipping disgusting cafeteria slosh instead of nursing a cold beer. If he weren't a forty-six year old man, Greg would have thrown a massive temper tantrum right about now.

Instead, he fished out his phone, sliding a thumb over the screen to unlock it. If he couldn't go out with his mates, he'd at least enjoy the drunken texts John usually sent whenever he went out drinking without Greg. Maybe, just maybe, they would also make an appearance in Mike's best man speech. Greg couldn't help the grin taking over his face at the memory of going through almost five years of embarrassing confessions with a surprisingly cruel-minded Stamford.

His next thought was something along the lines of 'Holy fucking Jesus riding naked on a motorcycle!' and had he been holding a mug then, he'd have more than dropped it. Broken it with one bare hand, most likely. Greg blinked down at his phone for several long moments before barking out a single laugh and starting to type out a reply.

Oh, this was going to be so much fun, Greg grinned as he reread the text. Well, for him, at least, he mused and promptly read it a third time, just for the heck of it.

**'I like your hair. It's very silvery. - SH'**

* * *

**'Oh, really? Tell me more. - GL'**

**'The tiny scar on your earlobe where you accidentally tore out your earring. It makes you look distinguished. And not boring. - SH'**

Sherlock's smile when he pocketed his phone was positively dopey. Not that the detective noticed, of course, his inebriated brain preoccupied with the suddenly unbelievably hard task of sucking the straw of his drink back between his lips.

Mike Stamford, on the other hand, did notice. "We'll have to confiscate that phone if you keep texting your girl," he tutted, never losing his usual friendly smile, though.

"What?" was all Sherlock managed in reply. That and a slow blink.

Mike shrugged, still smiling contentedly. "You're practically glowing over there. You, my good friend, are in love."

Sherlock blinked again, this time unaccompanied by any words. But he did put Stamford in the 'Happy Drunk' category in his mental catalogue of drinking behaviour and drinking types. Drunk Stamford wasn't a big step from sober Stamford, Sherlock noted, only his normal cheerfulness and openness seemed to be affected and amplified by the alcohol.

"Leave the man alone, Mike," muttered Arjun, one of John's co-workers at the hospital whose last name Sherlock had never bothered to learn, from their right and threw back the rest of his whisky. "We're here to get wasted, stop being so... _you_."

Stamford rolled his eyes at him, but didn't get the chance to shoot anything back. Any possible comment was prematurely interrupted by a body dropping between him and Sherlock and throwing an arm around the detective's shoulders.

"Yeah, all right. That's enough, Captain Grumpy," Bill Murray laughed while Sherlock created the brand new category of 'Grumpy Drunk'. Then he remembered the unwelcome appendage draped across his back and proceeded to scowl at the grinning redhead.

That only had the effect of making Bill's grin turn even wider and a tick more predatory, although he did remove the arm and hold his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"You should learn to keep your hands to yourself," Stamford chuckled, earning himself a shrug and a non-committal hum.

"My hands seem to like gorgeous things," Bill purred and pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock's cheek before the curly-haired man even had the opportunity to process the 'being called gorgeous by a pissed almost stranger who, maybe, if I remember correctly, used to serve with John' part.

"What?" Sherlock said again, that apparently being the only word left in his normally vast vocabulary at the moment. Bill laughed while Stamford tutted and shook his head. Arjun continued to grumble and stare into his empty glass.

"Don't worry," Bill sighed, sounding serious now as he used his thumb to free the detective's cheek from the sticky remnants of his beer-soaked lips. "I'm only teasing. Flirty drunk," he shrugged and patted Sherlock's knee once before moving back to pick up his bottle again.

Well. At least he'd categorised himself.

"Where are Tim and Dan?" John demanded, stumbling towards their group on unsteady feet. He had to brace himself against the back of a chair in order to keep his balance as he waited for an answer.

Bill nodded in the direction of the small space free of tables someone had decided was a perfect dance floor. "Making complete fools of themselves."

John followed the line of his pointing finger and promptly burst out laughing. "Yeah, well. More shots for us," he grinned, holding up a bottle of tequila and a small bowl of lemon slices.

'Reckless drunk,' Sherlock thought as he accepted one of the slices and copied Bill in licking his hand, Mike leaning over to pour a bit of salt over the wet area.

Glasses were filled and distributed, then held up high for a toast. All that came of it in the end was a slurred "Cheers!" on John's part before hands were licked, shots thrown back and lemons suckled.

Sherlock didn't do much more thinking after that.

* * *

The texts kept coming and Greg, despite his better judgement, kept opening and reading them, ignoring the stack of unsigned reports on his desk and the fact that he'd just have to stay on late after the weekend if he didn't work on them now. Since this had been supposed to be his day off, making the weekend a long one, he didn't feel all that bad, though. The Chief Superintendent would just have to live with Greg's indulging and the silly smiles that seemed to follow each message.

His phone gave another chime and Greg practically pounced on the little device, snatching it up from where he had positioned it conveniently close so he could see it light up. In case he missed the tone. And the vibration. Which could totally happen. Technically. Also, he had to admit to himself, he was stupidly, giddily excited to experience the notoriously private Sherlock in such an open, loose-tongued and sort of flirty state.

**'It turned out to be surprisingly flammable. I had not anticipated that particular quality. Your neck smells nice. Like fabric softener and sweat and aftershave. I like your aftershave. It suits you. - SH'**

Greg barked out a laugh and then quickly stretched in his seat, peeking out between the blinds to check if any of the other unfortunate souls to still be here at this ungodly hour had heard him. Once he felt safe, he relaxed back in his chair, the corners of his mouth tugging relentlessly into another smile.

The image of Sherlock with singed eyebrows and a blackened face, apart from the area around his eyes which would have been protected by goggles, did not do much to help Greg's concentration. He had absolutely no idea why the idiot genius had been playing - yeah, he wasn't going to call _that_ experimenting unless Sherlock was actually there to harass him into doing so - with non-dairy creamer and matches in the first place or why Sherlock thought that was vital information to share with him now, but he'd take it.

**'That's what you get for taking your tea with that crap. It's vile, don't know how you can stand, let alone drink, it. - GL'**

Somehow, Sherlock's spelling hadn't suffered the same fate as his conversation topics during the course of the evening. Greg usually ended up sending nonsense words or random letters when he attempted drunk texting. Of course Sherlock bloody Holmes would be able to type out things such as 'surprisingly flammable' even while he was utterly pissed. And Greg knew he was for two very simple reasons; Sherlock was not a regular drinker while John was and would use his superiority in that department and put it to good use.

Speed did not seem to be one of Sherlock's problems either. **'It was John's. He used to stock it for emergencies because I kept forgetting to buy milk. - SH'**

Greg worried at his lip as he stared down at the screen, contemplating. Would it sound like misplaced jealousy if he asked? Or could he write it off as simple curiosity? It wasn't like he was the only one who'd ever wondered. Still, though. That was an awfully intimate topic and Sherlock clearly wasn't in full control of his mouth. Or fingers. Whatever.

 **'Did you and John ever end up in bed together? - GL'** Greg typed and hit send before he could change his mind. Sherlock would definitely use this opportunity to coax all kinds of things out of Greg were their situations reversed.

**'If you're asking if we have ever shared a bed, the answer is yes. If you're referring to sexual intercourse, it is no. - SH'**

Right. Greg let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Sherlock didn't appear to be offended. Good. Which meant one more couldn't hurt. Probably. **'Why not?'**

Greg frowned. Why did he usually bother to sign his texts? Extra effort and for what?

**'Sign your texts. - SH'**

Ah. _That_ was why.

The second message came only a few moments after the first. **'John is straight. And I'm not interested. In him, I mean. Also, he's not my type. Don't tell him, he gets mean and knows all my ticklish places and where to hide the skull so I won't find it. - SH'**

Well, Greg thought, licking the corner of his mouth. That was an invitation for further flirtation if he'd ever seen one. **'Not interested, huh? What's your type, then? - GL'**

The **'You are. - SH'** arrived almost immediately after Greg had sent his text and was far more... _direct_ than anything he had anticipated. He swallowed hard around the sudden lump in his throat. **'Apart from me? Who else? Celebrity crush? Everyone has one of those. - GL'**

Christ. This was getting a bit too serious for almost three in the morning with one party inebriated and the other sleep-deprived and high on caffeine.

When his mobile announced Sherlock's reply, Greg briefly thought about not reading it and actually doing some real work instead. He took a deep breath to steel himself and opened the text. **'No. Only you. - SH'**

Holy shit, Greg thought, his fingers hovering over the keys but his brain suddenly and frustratingly blank.

Holy fucking shit!

* * *

The cabbie threw them a highly suspicious glance when they clambered-shuffled-fell into the car sometime around dawn, faces flushed from the alcohol and giggling like idiots.

The usual _'if you're sick in my taxi you're going to have to pay for the cleaning'_ and _'no funny business back there'_ threats were uttered before John was allowed to state his address and the car was set into motion.

John was nestled comfortably against Sherlock's side, head tucked under the detective's chin and one hand curled lightly around his wrist. "Sherlock?" he prompted after several minutes of silence, nudging Sherlock's chin with his head, snapping him out of the alcohol-fuelled doze he'd fallen into.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you were here tonight. There. At the pub. That you were... here. Yes. Here."

Sherlock blinked slowly and gave a loud, jaw-cracking yawn. "Okay," he murmured and closed his eyes again.

But John had grown restless, pushing himself away from Sherlock into what could be called a sitting position if one were to take certain liberties with the definition of the word sitting. "No," he groaned, sounding grumpy and frustrated. "I mean it, you great big idiot. I'm really glad you're here. _Here_ here, you know? Like, in London, at Baker Street, where you belong. Not... not out there, _away_ and... not here. You know?"

"Oh," said Sherlock, a bit dumbly, and then nothing else. Because what else was there to be said? He was back in London, back at Baker Street, back from the dead, everything was over and done with, everyone was safe and that was good. That's what it had all been for, after all. Mission accomplished, so to speak.

"Yeah," John agreed, to what exactly Sherlock didn't know and couldn't bring himself to figure it out, and smiled. He tugged at Sherlock's coat until Sherlock got the hint and bent down to allow John to brush a wayward curl away from his forehead and ghost a quick kiss over it before pressing his face into the crook of the detective's neck.

"You're not allowed to leave again, do you hear me?" John mumbled shakily and sniffled, burying himself closer against the detective.

"I won't," Sherlock promised solemnly. He didn't mention the slightly ragged breaths he could feel against his skin and simply wrapped an arm around his friend and held on, watching the rising sun and the faint drizzle casting the city into a golden, otherworldly light.

They let John out in front of his house and turned back around, making their way in the general direction of Baker Street and, Sherlock almost sighed in relief, his bed. His bed in his flat that was no longer _his and John's_ but just _his_ and empty and-

"I need to go somewhere else," Sherlock declared suddenly and loudly into the otherwise silent taxi, almost startling the cabbie into bumping the car in front of them and earning himself an angry glare he stubbornly ignored.

* * *

_This_ , Greg thought as he dragged himself back out of bed. _This_ was the fucking epitome of bad luck. Arriving home from work at half past five in the morning was one thing, but being woken by someone breaking into his bloody flat and having the gall to knock over stuff in his living room instead of just taking the bit of cash he had lying about and letting him sleep was just too fucking much.

He released the safety on his gun and carefully peeked around the corner from his position in the hall, letting out a relieved breath at the picture that presented itself.

"Sherlock, what the actual fuck?" he sighed, putting the weapon away in the nearest drawer as he approached the man currently sprawled across his stupid ugly carpet and scowling at the upturned coffee table.

"I fell," the detective slurred helpfully, letting himself fall fully back onto the floor.

Greg rolled his eyes in a long-suffering, exasperated sort of way, moving to kneel next to the obviously still very drunk man. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to kiss you," Sherlock stated seriously, as if that was something they said to each other all the time, as if that was a good enough reason to pick Greg's lock, as if any of this was at all what normal people did at half past fucking six on a Saturday morning.

But since normal hadn't applied to any aspect of Greg's life for a very long while now, he simply shrugged, leaned down and pecked Sherlock on the lips before drawing back a bit and running his hand through the lovely dark curls sticking up wildly from Sherlock's head.

"Thank you," Sherlock smiled drowsily and then, causing Greg to choke on nothing but thin air, added, "Now let's have sex."


	10. Confessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reason Sherlock usually doesn't drink. Also; a bit of sex. Yes, you read that correctly.

** Confessing **

It took an embarrassingly long moment for Greg's sleep-addled brain to catch up with current proceedings and to push Sherlock, who'd taken to nuzzling underneath his jaw, gently but insistently back.

"No," Greg said with a definite air of finality, adopting the most convincing version of his stern Detective Inspector voice he could muster under the circumstances. He went on to clear his throat, trying to get rid of the rather unhelpful huskiness, and placed both hands on the other man's shoulders to keep him at a distance. "Sherlock, no."

Sherlock gave him a long, confused blink. Then his face crumpled when he recognised what he must have interpreted as rejection before going carefully, neutrally blank. The obvious devastation made Greg wince and move one hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, thumb brushing reassuringly over beautiful pale skin.

"It’s fine," Sherlock sniffed, probably going for haughty but missing by a mile. He twisted away from Greg’s touch and scooted over to lean against the sofa, closing his eyes and hiding his face behind trembling hands. He sounded deflated and meek when he spoke again. “It’s fine, I understand.”

“Nah, I _really_ don’t think you do,” Greg sighed and crawled after the drunk-sulky-hurt detective. He slowly took hold of Sherlock’s hands, clasping them between his own to be able to watch the other’s expression.

“I’m not stupid,” Sherlock hissed - if one was to ignore the slurring undertones - and flexed his fingers. He didn’t pull away again, though, which Greg took as a small yet good sign. Baby steps.

Unsure if he’d let him, Greg leaned in close to rest their foreheads together, relieved when Sherlock grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt to hold him there.

“You were married,” Sherlock whispered after a moment, his voice so low Greg nearly didn’t hear it. “When we met, you were married to that _ghastly_ woman. How could I have said anything back then? What could I have possibly had to offer you?”

“Sherlock, I don’t-“

“And the situation hasn’t changed, has it? Not really. _She_ is out of the picture, but I’m still only me. A semi-reformed addict with atrocious social skills and no regard for all the inane little things everyone puts so much value to. It shouldn’t surprise me anew every single time that people do not want me,” the detective chuckled dejectedly, now desperately clutching at Greg’s neck and shoulder with shaking hands.

Greg was rendered momentarily speechless by the bittersweet revelation, swallowing around words that wouldn’t come, stuck in a suddenly too dry throat. Sherlock went on before he managed to gather himself.

“It was fine for a long time. It was enough being your... _friend_ ,” he murmured, stumbling over the last word as a silent sob shook him. “But, as it turns out, I’m not capable of keeping those either. Everyone leaves in the end.”

“I won’t leave you, sunshine,” Greg blurted without conscious thought but, well, it was true enough. He had absolutely no intention of going anywhere so shortly after they’d gotten Sherlock back.

The laugh that earned him was a terrible thing, filled and overflowing with sorrow, turning into another shuddering sob halfway through. “You don’t want me. Not in the way I want you, oh, that much I always knew. Apparently not in any other way either. You don’t want me, you said so. I heard you, I _heard_ what you said,” the detective spat accusingly, although still holding on to the other man, the fingers digging into Greg’s muscles sure to leave marks.

Of course Sherlock’s usual disdain and aloofness would turn into self doubt and depression with a few drinks, Greg thought sadly as he craned his neck to brush his lips over the detective’s forehead. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered against Sherlock’s skin, peppering feather light kisses over firmly shut eyes, damp cheeks and salty lips. “Tell me.” 

Sherlock trembled against him, rocking forward to bury his face in Greg’s neck with a strangled, painfully desolate moan. “Don’t be cruel,” he pleaded, _pleaded_ for fuck’s sake, mouthing at Greg’s jugular. “Don’t mock me. Please don’t.”

“I’m being perfectly serious. Tell me,” Greg insisted and twined his fingers into sweaty locks, scrubbing them gently over Sherlock’s scalp in calming little half-circles.

There was a pause so long, he was half convinced the detective had fallen asleep against him, but then Sherlock spoke again, everything long-harboured and yet never admitted aloud suddenly spilling out of him.

“I want _you_. All of you, everything you want to give and more. I want... I _need_ you to be the last thing I see before sleep claims me and the first when I open my eyes again. I need your patience and your warmth, I need you to calm my mind when it’s threatening to run away from me and to hold my body when I’m about to fall apart. I need you to force me into doing the most dull and mundane things, to fuss over me when I can’t be bothered to eat or sleep, to boss me around when I’m being stroppy, to keep me straight when I overstep lines I never even knew were there. I need you to laze around with me on rainy Sunday afternoons and do absolutely nothing, to track down thieves and robbers and murderers in the freezing cold. To come home to. I need your mind, your body, your soul. I need you, every minute of every hour of every day for the rest of my life. I need you.”

“Sherlock,” Greg choked out, blinking rapidly against the wetness in the corners of his eyes. “Don’t ever think that I don’t want you. You are wanted, sunshine, and needed. Always. I promise. But I am not going to take advantage of this situation while you can’t even sit, never mind stand, properly.”

“I-“ the detective began, then swayed and leaned even more against the other man. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Yeah, I can imagine,” Greg snorted softly, fondly. “Come on, let’s get you into some clothes that don’t smell like a brewery accident and then it’s off to bed for you.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock hummed amenably, allowing himself to be pulled up unto unsteady feet and led through to the bedroom, half staggering and half carried by Greg’s arm around his waist.

It was a bit of a struggle getting the boneless man naked and into some more comfy clothes, what with Sherlock determined to maintain as much body contact as possible at all times - including rubbing himself against Greg like an overgrown cat.

There were grunts of protest as Greg vanished in the bathroom after tucking him in which were quickly replaced by a pleased rumble when the cool washcloth was pressed against Sherlock’s neck. “Feels nice.”

“Good,” Greg smiled, climbing under the covers as well, throwing one leg over Sherlock’s and an arm over the man’s chest. “Go to sleep.”

“Okay,” Sherlock yawned, slung his own arm across Greg’s stomach, and actually did as he was told for once, snoring softly against Greg’s cheek not five minutes later.

* * *

Greg was woken by the starting shower and the resulting rustling of the old pipes. He groaned his complaint at the rudely indifferent ceiling before pulling the nearest blanket up and firmly over his head.

He had three days off, the weekend plus the whole of Monday to recover from what was undoubtedly going to be a fun wedding, and he was most definitely _not_ going to start them by getting up at whatever the hell o’clock it was right now.

A memo which a certain light-weight detective apparently hadn’t received and read yet.

“I feel awful,” Sherlock announced weakly from somewhere in the general direction of the door a little while later, actually prompting Greg to stick his head back out of his nest and crack one eye open.

“Mm, you look it, too,” he agreed and then grinned at Sherlock’s mortally offended glare. Oh, the vanity was strong with this one. The whole thing was rather adorable, though, what with his hair sticking up in all possible - and impossible - directions and Greg’s much too big jersey and robe hanging hazardously from one bony shoulder. The squinting at the sunlight filtering in through the gap in the curtains didn’t help either.

With a yawn, Greg shut his eyes again and lifted one edge of the blanket in a blatant invitation and sort of apology for daring to laugh at the fussy genius’ peril. Drama queen, honestly. Greg hid another grin in his pillow. Maybe this wasn’t the worst way to wake up after all.

He could feel Sherlock hesitate for a moment and then hear him pad across the wooden floor before there was a slight dip in the mattress as he lowered himself down at the foot of the bed. He didn’t seem very inclined to lie back down, however, causing Greg to turn his head and frown up at him.

“Something wrong?” he probed carefully, more than aware of how delicate Sherlock could be whenever he felt overwhelmed or was out of his depth - a fact he resolutely denied and Greg, therefore, never mentioned. Self-preservation instincts and all. But over a decade of dealing with hissy-fits, tantrums, shouting matches or downright meltdowns had taught him how to spot _some_ of the signs, at least.

“No,” Sherlock insisted immediately, automatically. He picked at the belt of the robe - nicked out of the bathroom, the cheeky bastard - all the while scowling down at his fingers as if they’d just committed the most entertaining murder and then went and dully confessed to everything.

Greg, meanwhile, said nothing and simply let him figure out whatever it was that flitted around in that head of his, putting all the patience only a two-time father and seasoned police officer could muster to good use. And the contentedness of a man having caught a surprisingly good night’s sleep with another, very attractive and pleasantly warm body curled up against his.

But Sherlock seemed to be trapped in one of his reflective moods and after a good five minutes without a word out of the detective’s mouth, Greg sighed and began to gently tug at his wrist. “Come back here,” he whined playfully, secretly delighted at the minute twitch of the other’s lips.

“Do you want me to, still?” Sherlock finally asked, apparently unable to meet Greg’s eyes and... was that a blush creeping up his neck?

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock let out a frustrated groan and gave the belt a violent flick. “I don’t appear to belong to the fortunate part of the population who simply delete the worst of their inebriated misdoings.”

Greg had to blink at that for a second before he managed to catch up. “So, you mean you remember last night?” A brief nod from Sherlock. “Well, that’s actually quite impressive, given how utterly pissed you were. It’s-“

“Absolutely mortifying?” Sherlock offered, now definitely more pink in the face than he’d been a minute ago.

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” Greg tried with a shrug of his own. “Happens to the best of us. Hell, I got so hammered once back in uni, I apparently flashed the officers arriving to break up the party and then proceeded to inelegantly throw up all over the front garden. Don’t think the gardenias survived the amount of-“

“I reread the texts,” Sherlock interrupted quietly. “And I recall a speech about need and want in which I might or might not have mentioned utterly ridiculous things such as souls.”

“Ah,” said Greg, very eloquently.

“Yes, ah.”

The silence that followed could have been the poster child for awkwardness, neither man really knowing what to say next. In the end, Greg started with “Well, look-“ at the same time as Sherlock mumbled “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Greg asked, because that was about the most unexpected thing to ever have come out of Sherlock’s mouth. “Sorry for what?”

“I-“ Sherlock began, then had to clear his throat before he was able to go on. “I understand that my confessions last night might have made you uncomfortable and I apologise for that. That wasn’t my intention. I am not normally so blunt or forthcoming with such matters and I realise that it must have been quite a big shock to discover that someone you’ve considered a friend for such a long time has been harbouring a frankly embarrassing crush all those years. I also fully understand how inappropriate I was behaving by practically forcing myself onto you and if you would prefer for me to leave now I would hardly hold that against you.”

It took Greg a while to remember to collect his jaw from the floor. “Sherlock,” he whispered, stunned, his mind reeling. “Did you just conveniently delete or misinterpret all of what _I_ said earlier this morning? Sherlock, oh my God, don’t be daft!”

That earned him an affronted eyebrow-raise. “Excuse me?”

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “It needs more than one drunken come-on to scare me off, okay? And yeah, hearing that you care so much was a shock, but only ‘cause I never would’ve expected it. Christ, I mean, I’m in my mid- forties, I could be your father-“

“Hardly,” Sherlock snorted and was ignored.

“I could _almost_ be your father. I’m divorced with two kids, I have job with next to zero chance of ever getting another promotion, I’ve definitely been fitter and you tell me I’m an idiot on a near daily basis. So I’m sorry if I misjudged exactly how you feel about me, but everything you’ve mention, all the things you want out of this?” Greg said, gesturing between the two of them. “I want those, too. More than anything. And if you haven’t figured that out or deduced how fucking much I love you after a decade of knowing me, then you should definitely take down your website and stop calling yourself a detective.”

“Greg,” was all Sherlock managed to croak, the expression on his face as taken aback as the other man had ever seen it.

Unable to help himself any longer, Greg slung an arm around the younger man’s waist, pulled him back down and right into a ridiculously happy kiss that soon turned into a full-on snog - grabby hands on Greg’s part included - and ended with Sherlock groaning and carefully turning onto his back.

“Shaking me doesn’t seem to be advisable at the moment,” he grimaced but still reached out to grab at the older man’s hand and twine their fingers.

“Ah, the wonderful after-effects of alcohol consumption,” Greg teased with a chuckle and decided that, after _his_ declaration, he might as well be bold enough to roll on top of Sherlock and make himself at home between those sinuously long legs.

The shy smile Sherlock graced him with in return was breathtaking. “I’m not drunk anymore, you know,” he informed Greg, hands wandering down to slip under his shirt and tease over Greg’s lower back.

“Yeah, you’re very clearly hung over as shit,” Greg hummed agreeably, lowering himself to kiss one delicious cheekbone, then the other.

“Meaning,” Sherlock went on, letting his eyes fall closed and his smile turn devilishly sultry, “you’re objections from last night are now invalid.”

Greg groaned at that, head dropping down against the now smirking detective’s shoulder.

“I would ask you to take me to bed,” Sherlock went on, just barely suppressing laughter, judging by the ever so slight wobble in his voice, “but, quite fortunately, we already are.” He shifted a little, wriggling his hips until Greg could feel a very definite sign of arousal press into his stomach. “What do you intend to do about this, Detective Inspector?”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Greg decided, grinding his own hips down in search for friction while mouthing at the exposed skin where the robe had fallen open and the hem of the shirt conveniently slipped aside.

“Possibly,” Sherlock purred and that did it.

A mad scramble to get rid of clothes and a dive over to the bedside table for lube and condoms later, Greg resumed his place, unable to hold back a shiver when skin met other, gloriously naked skin.

“How-“

Sherlock, in lieu of a verbal reply, let his legs fall open a bit wider and arched his back, rubbing their studiously growing erections together before plopping back down with an expectantly raised eyebrow.

“Yes. Hell yeah,” Greg panted and cursed himself for being out of breath already even as he made good use of the lube, coating his fingers and slowly moving them down.

He gave Sherlock’s cock a quick stroke, revelling in the deep, resonating hum that action earned him. Encouraged, he slid his hand further down and between very biteable cheeks and-

Greg hesitated when Sherlock hissed at the initial breach, placing a chaste, questioning kiss on the man’s parted lips. “Okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes, taking a few steadying breaths. “It has been a while. Go on.”

Knowing better than to ask if he was sure, Greg complied and pushed gently until one finger was seated firmly before pulling it back out and repeating the motion. He sped up soon, spurred on by Sherlock’s quickening breaths and, without warning, added a second finger which forced the most delicious little moan out of the man beneath him.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, chuckling but otherwise ignoring Sherlock’s poor attempt at an annoyed scowl. “So lovely.”

Obviously growing impatient - bossy even in bed, what a surprise - Sherlock bore down on Greg’s fingers, urging him deeper and faster. Greg, in turn, began scissoring them on every inward slide, feeling the muscles slowly loosen around himself. He managed to tear his eyes away from Sherlock’s flushed face eventually, watching in somewhat akin to wonder where their bodies were joined together.

“More,” Sherlock demanded shortly, using his feet to shove at Greg in what probably translated to _‘get a move on, man!’_

Yeah, definitely bossy, Greg thought with a not at all disapproving grin that fell right off his face when the detective snatched the condom packet up and unceremoniously threw it across the room. “What-“

“You’re clean, I’m clean. I have been waiting half an eternity for this and I want to _feel_ you. _All_ of you. Problem?”

Well, if he put it like that.

The two men groaned in unison as the head of Greg’s cock slipped inside, past the minimal remaining resistance, slowly yet steadily sliding deeper until he was fully seated, straining to keep still and let the other adjust for a moment.

Sherlock, however, seemed to have other plans. He hooked his heels into the backs of Greg’s knees, curled one arm around his back and gently, almost tenderly, cupped his cheek with his free hand and pulled until they were pressed flush together from chest to thigh.

Apparently satisfied with the results he sought out Greg’s mouth again, giving his lower lip a sharp nip and then lapping at it soothingly while he rolled his hips in a clear demand.

Their position gave Greg limited room for movement which he was absolutely fine with. He began to thrust carefully, establishing a slow, searching rhythm because honestly, the unexpected intimacy of the whole things - Sherlock’s impossible eyes locked onto his, their warm breaths mingling between them, the delicate tracing of almost disbelieving fingers across his face - was going to do him in soon enough anyway.

A slight shift and Sherlock cried out, low and needy, sending shivers along Greg’s spine, tingling all the way down to the very tips of his toes. Mindful to hit that sensitive spot on every other thrust, Greg picked up his pace, curling one arm under Sherlock’s neck to cradle the back of his head and guide him in for another kiss, this one long and wet and utterly lavish.

He could feel Sherlock begin to tremble in his arms, could feel the minute twitches of the cock trapped between their bellies and the toes digging urgently into his calves.

“Say it again,” Sherlock whispered against Greg’s lips, followed by the tip of his tongue as if to trace the invisible words. “Please.”

And Greg said it again without having to ask, said “I love you, sunshine,” and snapped his hips forward one, two, three times more and Sherlock gasped and went rigid before practically melting back into the sheets, the impossible heat and tightness of him, the telling wetness between them pulling Greg right over the edge and into the abyss with him.


	11. Smoking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interrupted cuddles, a nosy coworker and Sebastian Wilkes. Who is a terrible influence but also a lot of fun.

** Smoking **

They lay curled against each other, enjoying their comfortable post-coital bliss while Greg ran his fingers through still damp locks and, every now and again, lazily nuzzled the side of Sherlock’s face or the crown of his head, marvelling at the fact that he was apparently allowed this luxury.

He hadn’t taken Sherlock for a cuddler, yet here they were; Greg on his back with Sherlock draped hazardously across his chest, mouthing at his collarbone and absently playing with the trail of hair leading down to Greg’s very spent but very satisfied cock.

It was nice, peaceful, and not at all what Greg had expected. Then again, defying people’s expectations was something Sherlock was incredibly good at and probably did simply for the fun of getting to see their stupefied faces. Not that Greg’s face was in any state to do much more than smile a little groggily at the moment, shagged out and boneless as he was.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock mumbled and tilted his chin up, scowling at the other man. “You’re ruining the mood,” he accused with a sniff before shifting and burying his face in Greg’s neck.

Greg, in response, tightened the arm he’d slung around Sherlock’s waist and tugged him closer against his side. “Sorry, love,” he grinned, unable to help himself, and brushed a tender kiss over the other’s forehead.

He could feel Sherlock tense at the use of the endearment, but then there were lips being pressed to the underside of his jaw, tentatively and almost shyly.

“Greg,” Sherlock breathed, followed by kisses up over his chin until the detective reached his destination and could press their mouths together.

Uttering a happy little hum, Greg cupped the back of his head and parted his lips, only to have Sherlock roll away after one infuriatingly short and absolutely insufficient touch of their tongues, chuckling at Greg’s protesting groan and batting at the grabbing hands that tried to pull him back in.

“I am your guest,” Sherlock haughtily informed him as he jumped up and stretched, completely unashamed of his nudity and the evidence of their earlier activities drying on his belly and trickling down the inside of his thighs. “And since you had your cock inside me, I think it would only be polite of you to prepare me breakfast. Eggs, poached, and toast with jam. Strawberry or black raspberry will do.”

With that he turned and sauntered over to the bathroom, winking back over his shoulder at a stunned Greg before closing the door behind himself.

* * *

Greg’s inability to say no to Sherlock had obviously been transferred from their working to their more personal relationship, meaning he found himself standing in front of the stove when Sherlock entered the kitchen some five minutes later.

“Tea,” he said without turning, gesturing in the general direction of the bar, and then nearly dropped his own cup when Sherlock pressed up close to him, wrapping his arms around Greg’s stomach and resting a pointy chin on his shoulder.

“Hi,” Greg smiled and Sherlock tucked his nose behind his ear, staying like that until the requested meal was ready to be served and Sherlock had to let him go with a displeased grunt and entirely unimpressed but ridiculously adorable pout.

Eating proved difficult since Sherlock seemed to deem stealing deep, drawn-out kisses more important than actually ingesting anything of his ordered breakfast. Greg was completely on board with that, though, so they switched from the bar to the sofa in order to continue what had quickly become a full-on snog in a more comfortable position with Sherlock sprawled all over Greg and as many of his long limbs as possible locked around the other man.

When Sherlock, enticingly enough only wearing another one of Greg’s shirts and a pair of pants, began to shiver, Greg plucked his ‘too tired to move to the bedroom’-blanket from the armchair and tugged it snugly around them both, settling in for a bit of a doze.

He let his thoughts drift, soothed by the warm weight of Sherlock in his arms and the slow, even breaths puffed against his cheek, the whole situation almost shockingly domestic. Not that Greg cared a whit about that, quite the opposite in fact.

Yes, he could definitely and very easily get used to this.

* * *

He’d heard her come in, Greg thought later, but had been too sleepy and cosily snuggled up with a handsome man to get up or even wonder why Sally was using the emergency key he’d given her for, well, emergencies to let herself into the flat.

So it wasn’t until her shrilly shrieked “What the hell?” that Greg’s mind came fully back online and decided the best course of action was to shove Sherlock away and practically leap off the sofa despite being clad in nothing but an old, low-hanging pair of pyjama bottoms and a solitary sock - with a hole in it.

Sherlock gave a disgruntled groan at the rude awakening, barely managing to hang on to the armrest and prevent himself from landing on the coffee table. His expression went scarily blank the instant he realised just who was staring at them with her jaw hanging almost comically open and he was up and halfway across the room before Greg had the chance to do so much as blink.

“What the hell?” Sally demanded again once she’d shaken off her momentary speechlessness, eyes darting from her boss to Sherlock’s retreating form and back again.

“It’s not what you think,” Greg blurted and immediately wished he could take it back, every single word of it. In his periphery vision he saw Sherlock freeze, purposefully straighten his spine and then briskly continue his walk into the bedroom. He also slammed the door quite forcefully.

“I believe this is exactly what I think it is,” Sally countered and quirked two disbelieving brows at Greg’s state of undress.

And yeah, okay. It was pretty obvious, Greg had to admit. Unwilling to discuss any of this with his sergeant, he started what he knew to be an entirely futile attempt at distraction. But it was the thought that counted, right?

“What are you doing here?” he asked, only now spotting the garment bag hanging over Sally’s arm. “What’s that?”

Sally, however, wasn’t someone to be easily deterred. “Your suit for Watson’s wedding got delivered to the Yard, don’t ask me why, you didn’t pick up your mobile and I thought I’d be nice and bring it over. Now,” she said, draping the suit over the nearest chair and bracing her hands on her hips. “My turn. Since when are you shagging the freak?”

“No,” Greg said sternly and crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t get to call him that here. Whatever mutual insulting the two of you get up to at work is your own business, but I won’t have you barging in here and insulting my-“

Well, that brought him up short. His what? What were they now, after the previous night? Greg would have liked to say boyfriends or partners, but they hadn’t exactly talked about it yet. Hadn’t discussed much of anything concerning their changing relationship. If there was a relationship to talk about which, again, Greg was all for. He really didn’t know, though.

“Don’t overexert yourself thinking up excuses,” came Sherlock’s snappish voice as he breezed past and toward the door, carefully not looking in Greg’s direction and not acknowledging Sally’s presence at all.

“Sherlock,” Greg tried, catching up with the man as he was wrenching open the front door. He reached out to take Sherlock’s hand, wincing when the detective flinched away from his touch and glared. “Sherlock, stay. I didn’t-“

“It’s fine,” Sherlock interrupted him icily, making it painfully clear that nothing was even close to being fine. “I understand,” he bit out, lips pulled back into an angry sneer, and bolted for the stairs without a backward glance.

Greg was still staring at the empty hallway when Sally cleared hear throat, torn between awkwardness and amusement, by the sound of it. “That went well,” she stated bluntly.

“I need a smoke,” Greg sighed, half a year of being off the bloody things be damned.

* * *

The intercom crackled to life with a disinterested _“Yeah?”_ and a lot of static.

“Your landlord is desperately trying to save money by acquiring only the cheapest technology available for his properties. I imagine he’ll be filing for bankruptcy within the year.”

There was a surprised pause and then, _“Well. Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”_

“I so love to be contrary. Besides, you’re not technically seeing me yet.”

_“Your sense of humour is still off, doll, let’s stay with the detective work, shall we?”_

Sherlock rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile from curving up his lips. “Open the door, Sebastian.”

The buzz sounded and Sherlock quickly slid inside, making his way up to the second floor where the other man was waiting already, leaning in the doorway with his head tilted curiously and wearing a small, confused frown.

“Would it help if I told you I’m sorry?”

“It certainly couldn’t hurt,” Sherlock shrugged, affecting nonchalance Sebastian, quite literally knowing the detective inside and out, saw right through, being as annoyingly perceptive as ever.

“I am, though, you know,” Sebastian sighed as he stepped aside to let Sherlock in, guiding him to the sitting room with a familiar hand on the small of his back. “Sorry, I mean. I really am.”

Sherlock arched a sceptical eyebrow and Sebastian winced, scratching at the back of his neck with an expression caught somewhere between sheepish and regretful.

“Seriously, Sherlock, I am. About everything.” He gestured at the sofa and they sat, Sebastian with one leg tucked under himself and his body angled toward the other man. “About uni and how everything ended, about trying to chat you up again-“

“While you were married.”

“While I was married, yeah. About behaving like a complete dick that time at the bank - thanks for that, by the way - and never calling again after. I did go to your funeral, though. Even brought flowers and everything,” he laughed shakily, running a hand over his face and blinking beseechingly at Sherlock through the gaps between his fingers. “I’m an idiot. Forgive me?”

Sherlock pretended to consider for a moment before breaking out into an honest smile. “Get me a scotch and I might consider it.”

That earned him a swat with one of the cushions, but Sebastian did get up and made his way over to the bar. He grabbed a bottle of something that most likely cost more than John’s average monthly wage and filled two tumblers with ice from the mini-fridge hidden behind the elegant wood panelling of the wall.

“Bit pretentious, don’t you think?” Sherlock teased, nevertheless accepting the proffered drink.

Sebastian just rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand at him as he flopped back down and casually propped one foot up in Sherlock’s lap while digging the other underneath his thigh. Sherlock huffed in feigned annoyance even as he shifted to accommodate the other man, free hand coming to rest on Sebastian’s shin.

People saw his prickly nature and generally assumed him to be averse to touch, Sherlock knew, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. He rather craved human contact, especially since his return from the two years chasing criminals around the globe in lonely solitude.

Luckily enough, Sebastian suffered from an equal lack of regard for propriety and personal space as Sherlock himself, so there’d always been what others deemed an unusual amount of physical closeness between them even before they had actually grown to become intimate with each other.

“So,” Sebastian interrupted his musings, poking Sherlock with his toes to get his attention. “Why are we drinking?”

Sherlock’s face fell at the reminder of his disastrous last conversation with Greg and the subsequent escape from the flat. It had taken him a hasty journey down to the street plus the half minute it took to hail a cab to realise that his reaction had not been entirely proportionate to what had transpired. But, for all his insecurities and self-esteem issues concerning emotional and interpersonal relationships, Sherlock was also proud to such an extent that it had been impossible to simply go back upstairs, drag Greg back to bed and stay there for the rest of the day - no matter how much he’d wanted to do exactly that.

“Uh-oh,” Sebastian tutted, waggling a playful finger at the detective. “I know that look. Tell me about him.”

Sherlock gave him an indignant snort and haughty toss of his head in return. “What makes you think I would come to you for advice regarding men?”

“Because I know you,” Sebastian said immediately and then added, with a smirk, “And because I know just what you like, doll.”

“Oh? And what, pray tell, would that be?” Sherlock inquired, willing his expression away from slipping into an answering grin.

Leaning back, Sebastian fumbled with the drawer of the little end table for a moment until-

“That is terrible advice,” Sherlock chuckled as he watched the other man stick the rolled up piece of paper between his lips. “Terrible advice and a criminal offence.”

“Oh, hush,” was all Sebastian mumbled in response, taking a long drag before passing the joint over with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Let’s play twenty questions!”

* * *

“I just don’t understand,” Sally repeated for what felt like the thousandth time, pacing back and forth in front of the sofa while Greg sat by the open window with his third - or maybe fourth, he’d stopped counting somewhere along the way - cigarette.

“Well, good thing you don’t have to, then,” he sighed tiredly and flicked some ash down onto the pavement, watching it whirl around in the cool January breeze.

They’d been going in circles ever since Sherlock had more or less run from the room an hour ago, Sally fluctuating between total bewilderment - _‘Him, though? Really?’_ \- something akin to wonder - _‘I didn’t think he’d go for, well, anyone.’_ \- and, the most infuriating, concern - _‘He’s using you, Greg, he doesn’t feel like we do, you know that!’_

Sally stopped next to him, looking down at Greg with her shoulders set in a tense line. “What are you doing? No, wait, hear me out,” she insisted, holding up a hand at the first sign of protest. “He’s clever and not too hard on the eyes, I’ll give you that. But he’s a psycho, Greg, he’s not right. He investigates murders for fun and plays with dead things in his spare time. He faked his own death, for crying out loud, who’s to tell you he won’t do it again? Just up and leave once he gets bored or finds another serial killer to obsess over-“

“Stop it,” Greg barked, causing Sally’s mouth to close with an audible plop. “Don’t, just don’t, okay? You-“ he cut himself off, taking a deep breath before shouting something he’d later regret. “You don’t know him-“

“And you honestly think that _you_ do?” Sally laughed incredulously, throwing up her hands and shaking her head.

“I do,” Greg persisted, his tone one of finality that tolerated no further arguments. “You don’t have to like it, but you will have to accept it. The two of you can go at each other over him showing up at scenes without invitation or stealing evidence or calling you a moron, I honestly don’t give a shit about any of that. But Sally, you have absolutely no say in my personal life or relationships. None. Am I making myself clear here?”

Sally wavered for just a moment before she went on. “What if he hurts you? What if he’s only doing this to gain your favour or trick you into giving him access-“

“All right, that’s it,” Greg sighed and stubbed out his fag, closing the window and standing up to usher Sally toward the door. “It was very considerate of you to stop by, but I’ve had enough. I’m a grown man and can actually handle myself just fine.”

“But-“ Sally tried one more time, holding onto the doorframe when Greg began to gently shove her out into the hall.

“No buts. This is about as much of your business as you and Philip were any business of mine.”

That shut her right up. For about ten seconds. “You like him, don’t you? I mean, furniture shopping and thinking about getting a cat together like him, yeah?”

“He’s more of a dog person,” Greg deadpanned, then cracked a grin and winked at her. “But yes, yes I do.”

She regarded him for another few seconds before giving a resigned huff and a little shrug. “Fine, whatever. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when things get weird, though, yeah?”

“Thank you, Sally,” Greg smiled and waited until she was pushing the button for the lift to call out again. “Oh, Sergeant Donovan? Next time you think about accusing me of exchanging classified information for sexual favours, remember that I’m still your superior and the one deciding if you’re working cases or sorting files down in the archives.”

* * *

“Okay, next one,” Sebastian declared through his mouthful of custard, making Sherlock wrinkle his nose when he attempted to cram two biscuits in there as well. “What’s he do for a living?”

Sherlock glanced from his own bowl of pistachio ice cream to the remnants of their shared smoke in his other hand and promptly burst into a fit of giggles that he would never admit to while sober.

“What?” Sebastian whined and kicked at the detective with absolutely no coordination left, ending up with his foot in the puddle of booze he’d created in an earlier rock-paper-scissors match, the score of which they were still in disagreement over. “What’s funny?”

“Detective Inspector,” Sherlock wheezed and that, after a moment, got Sebastian laughing as well.

* * *

His bed was entirely too cold and empty without a certain snarky genius so, after tossing and turning for half an eternity, Greg picked up his mobile and opened a new text.

**‘Sorry about earlier. I love you, sunshine. - GL’**

Surprisingly enough, the reply came mere seconds later. **‘We’re fine, Greg. Stop worrying. - SH’** which was immediately followed by, **‘I upgraded my room at the hotel to a suite. Thought we could share. If you want to, that is. - SH’** and, finally, **‘Actually, I don’t care. Cancelled your reservation. And you, too. What you said. Shut up! - SH’**

Yeah, Greg thought with a smile, they were good.


	12. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rule # 1 in Greg and Sherlock's relationship; someone must always be insecure and self-conscious.

** Dancing **

The wedding had been lovely, the small village covered in a fine layer of snow that glittered in the dulled winter light, almost like a page out of a fairytale.

Greg felt a bit bad for not having heard much of the service itself, distracted as he’d been by Sherlock sitting pressed close against his side with their linked fingers lying comfortably in his lap. Worst of all was that John had taken one look at them, at their hands and Greg’s undoubtedly dopey expression, and _known_.

It wasn’t a secret, Greg supposed, whatever it was he and Sherlock were doing now. There were probably going to be some issues concerning work, especially with Sally trying to find fault with his behaviour in her search for any signs that he was compromised. Which was ludicrous. And a little insulting, if he thought about it.

The point being, though, that Greg had no plans of keeping Sherlock or his feelings for the idiot-genius hidden away. He had no issues with showing his affection, privately or publicly. Sure, he wasn’t one for eating his partner’s face off in the middle of Regent’s Park, but there was nothing to say against walking hand in hand or getting a sweet little kiss goodbye.

If Sherlock was comfortable with that sort of thing, of course, although Greg had a sneaking suspicion that he was and rather enjoyed staking his claim, should today’s clinginess and the amount of glares directed at the flirty bridesmaid be any indication. Not that Greg was complaining, mind you, possessiveness in small doses and coming from the usually stoic and cold detective was a rather endearing thing, after all.

Still, it would have been nice to know if they were in the same boat here, to actually have a chat about their expectations and wishes before being exposed to the rumour mills. He had made an attempt at conversation after checking into their suite, but Sherlock had incredibly clever fingers and an almost frighteningly talented tongue which had demanded Greg’s immediate attention.

Talking hadn’t seemed all that important anymore, then.

“They’re ridiculous, the two of them.”

Greg glanced up at Mary standing next to him, then over to the dance floor and the men in question. Sherlock was wearing his patented ‘I am about to do something you won’t like at all’-smirk while John had both his eyebrows raised in warning, yet still failed to completely keep the amusement out of his murmuring voice.

“Why don’t you go and ask him for a dance? I’m sure he’d like that,” Mary suggested warmly, causing Greg to nearly choke on his champagne, followed by a lot of coughing and spluttering.

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever actually seen me dance before,” he snorted, only to have the bride tut and wave a dismissive hand at him.

“John was hopeless before Sherlock came along, you know,” she stage-whispered, grinning down at him, tongue in cheek. “Had blisters from him stepping on my toes so much. And now look at him, you can hardly tell he’s got two left feet.”

They watched together as Sherlock leaned down to whisper in John’s ear, making the groom chuckle and shake his head _no!_ just before he was dipped back. He’d later deny it, but Greg had definitely heard John’s startled squeak.

“Children, honestly,” Mary giggled and gave Greg’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “I’m going to grab another glass of wine and you, mister, better be out there with your man when I get back.”

Greg huffed out a laugh and gave her a salute in return. “Yes, ma’am!”

And he would have done it, too, if it hadn’t been for that bloke with the strawberry blond curls and bright green eyes practically skipping up to Sherlock and pulling him into an irksomely intimate embrace.

Which Sherlock not only endured but also returned, quite enthusiastically so.

Greg picked up his flute and narrowed his eyes at the pair of them.

* * *

John’s half-hearted chiding cut off abruptly and Sherlock had just enough time to catch a quick glimpse of a very familiar grin before he found himself with a positively giddy man wrapped around him.

Stunned by the surprise reunion, it took Sherlock a moment before his lips curved up into a fond smile and he remembered to return the hug. He nodded at John and his questioningly raised eyebrows and watched as he took the hint and slunk away, over to where Mary was waiting to guide him back to the middle of the floor for another dance.

“Well, look at you,” the man whistled once they broke apart, appreciatively raking his eyes up and down Sherlock’s body. “Did you sit in a pile of sugar? Cause you have a pretty sweet arse.”

“Honestly, Victor?” Sherlock snorted, giving him a gentle shove that only earned him a cheeky little laugh. “Twenty years and _that_ is what you chose?”

Victor shrugged, tugging at the lapels of Sherlock’s suit jacket until he could wrap his arms around him again. “Worked when you were seventeen, didn’t it? Rendered the famously eloquent Sherlock Holmes speechless, is what I did.”

“I needed a moment to decide how best to voice my disgust with your trite attempt at a come-on,” Sherlock teased, huffing when that ended with poke to his ribs.

“You were charmed, admit it,” Victor singsonged and took a firm hold of Sherlock’s hand, placing his free one on the detective’s hip. “Still know how to dance, posh boy?”

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes at that and began to move them to the music, automatically taking the lead and easily falling back into well-practiced movements even though it had been over two decades. “Who’s the unlucky guy?”

“Oh, shut up,” Victor grumbled but obediently brought their linked hands up between them to show off the gleaming ring on his finger. “I’m a fucking delight to be married to.”

“Of course you are,” Sherlock agreed mildly, running his thumb over the delicate gold band. Polished to within an inch of its life. Newlyweds, then. Cared for, although marred with a couple scratches and faint stains already, proving a certain reluctance to take it off at all, even during showers or at work - an experimental chemist still, obviously.

Sherlock frowned, not having anticipated any of this but much less the strong desire to make sure his old friend was happy. It was sudden and made him twitch, prompting Victor to look back up at him.

“It’s so good to see you again, Lockie,” he smiled, face softening at Sherlock’s confused expression.

“Is it, though?” Sherlock asked quietly, unable to meet Victor’s eyes, and bent forward to rest his chin on the other man’s shoulder. Which suited the current song and was most definitely not him trying to hide.

Victor brought both his hands up to Sherlock’s shoulder blades, radiating reassurance and calm. “’Course it is, you dork.” He nestled in close, touching their temples together as they swayed to some terrible pop ballad Sherlock wouldn’t be sad to never hear again after tonight. “We were young and stupid, there was a massive pile of unaddressed issues and a literal ocean between us. Sure, I was heartbroken when you decided to break it off without bothering to talk to me first, but let’s be serious here for a moment; we wouldn’t have worked out. We could barely stand not spending every free minute we had together when we lived on the same campus, we’d have been miserable only visiting each other every other holiday. It’d have been all right for a while, maybe a couple of years if we’d really put everything into it which, given our respective careers and ambitions, would never have happened. But sooner or later we’d have started to resent each other and the amount of effort needed to maintain something that should be easy and _fun_.”

Not knowing what to say to that, an annoying trait Victor tended to evoke in him, Sherlock swallowed hard, squeezed the arms he’d slung around Victor’s back and went for a change of topic. “Are you going to tell me about him or do I have to deduce the name of the poor sod who got saddled with you?”

“Deflection, deflection,” Victor tutted playfully but accepted Sherlock’s need for a moment to gather himself and his stirred up emotions. He sighed contentedly before he spoke again. “His name’s Bill, he’s a nurse and yes, as the only man on the team he’s used to all the gay jokes. Which do fall kind of flat if the bloke is actually gay, so. You know. Anyway. I was walking my flatmate’s dog when the bitchy little thing decides to take off and make this _gorgeous_ man’s ankle its new chew toy. Lots of apologies were made, numbers were exchanged, coffee and a quickie in a Starbucks toilet quickly following and _voila_ , here we are, eight years later. Got married on our anniversary last summer, he wore the uniform, if you know what I mean, and I couldn’t be happier.”

“Sap,” Sherlock said, then did a mental double-back. “Uniform? He’s in the army?”

“Was, past tense,” Victor hummed, pulling back enough so they could look at each other again. “Why? You got a thing for- oh, there he is. The redhead with the cute freckles who’s way tipsier already than he should be.”

Sherlock craned his neck in the direction of Victor’s pointing finger, wincing when his eyes landed on the man currently flirting his way into Mrs Hudson’s good graces.

Victor gave a mock-offended grunt. “You don’t approve, your highness? I mean, sure, he doesn’t have your cheekbones but I find that there are other redeeming-“

“He was at John’s stag-do,” Sherlock interrupted, hating that he could feel the heat and colour rise in his cheeks.

“Well, yes. They served together for two tours over in Kandahar,” Victor shrugged, frowning for a few seconds before he rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “What did he do? I discovered that hitting him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper usually does the trick.”

“It- eh, he was- I’m sure he didn’t-“ Sherlock tried, stumbling over his words and groaning in frustration.

“Are you being shy?” Victor laughed, sounding amused and everything but angry. “It’s perfectly all right, Sherlock. We have boundaries and rules and he knows them. He likes to flirt, no harm done. But when did you turn into a blushing virgin? Not that I’m keen on stopping you, it’s delicious-“

Sherlock silenced him with a somewhat irritated glare and a twirl that had the other man grinning. “Excuse me for not knowing the protocol for when you meet your ex-boyfriend for the first time in over twenty years and realise you had the privilege of getting a drunk kiss from his new husband a mere forty-eight hours prior.”

“Aw, sweetheart,” Victor chirped and fluttered his eyelashes, “you never used to call me your boyfriend back then. You insisted it sounded immature but always got that pinched look when people asked me if I had one and I, honest as I am, answered no.”

Sherlock groaned again, running his fingers over the ticklish spot over Victor’s kidney, delighted by the undignified giggle that caused.

“You’re a menace,” Victor accused and stuck his lower lip out in a pout which used to make Sherlock’s knees go weak when he was an awkward, gangly teenager with a permanent scowl and his first real crush.

Now, though, Sherlock smirked and said, “I try.”

* * *

Greg knew he was sulking and that is must have been obvious to everyone in a five kilometre radius. There wasn’t anything he could do to stop his mood from steadily but surely dropping, however, which only further annoyed him.

It was a vicious cycle another flute of champagne and two glasses of white had already fallen victim to.

Jealousy wasn’t the right word for it because while Greg knew that feeling by heart, this wasn’t it. He could be hot-headed, no question there, but he usually didn’t tend toward unwarranted visits from the green-eyed monster.

He simply felt resigned as he watched Sherlock and his friend, for it must have been someone he knew for him to act so uncannily sociable, sway to the music and talk and _laugh_.

When Sherlock laughed, when it wasn’t the fake thing he shamelessly manipulated everyone around him with, his entire face changed, became softer and more open somehow; the corners of his eyes crinkled, his nose wrinkled and made him look younger and almost boyish, and his lips twitched every so often, trying to smile even wider.

The sight was something to behold and normally, Greg cherished it. Carefully memorised every single moment of it and filed it away inside his head to re-watch whenever he felt down. Sherlock laughing was a precious thing and it made Greg twitchy and nervous not to be the one causing it.

Which was the gist of the matter, really. Greg was well-aware of being head over heels in love with the eccentric detective, had been since long before Sherlock’s confession or even their first kiss. The problem wasn’t that he doubted Sherlock returning those feelings either, the last couple of days had definitely proven that there was _something_ between them, even if it remained unnamed as of yet.

But he couldn’t help being terribly self-conscious about, well, pretty much every single thing about himself. Especially compared to Tall, Handsome and Incredibly Elegant over there getting all cosy with Sherlock.

He had to go for a jog at least four mornings a week to resemble what people called fit, the time for which he rarely found between work and more work and what miserable excuse for a social life he had. He wasn’t stupid but neither was he anywhere near Sherlock’s level of brilliant. His baggage included a bitch of an ex-wife, substantial debt from buying a house he wasn’t allowed to live in anymore and the guilt of not being the father he swore he would be.

All in all, Greg was a dull, average man in his mid-forties attempting to hold on to the most easily bored person on the planet.

“You, my friend, look like shit,” the man flopping down in the chair next to him observed and held out a-

“Where did you get that?” Greg wondered but gladly accepted the blessedly cold beer. While wine and its kind went nicely with a good meal, nothing beat the familiar bitterness of the _best_ kind of alcohol.

The man grinned mischievously, holding out his free hand. “Bill. And I have my ways.”

“Bill, you are my hero,” Greg sighed, taking a sip and shaking the proffered hand. “Name’s Greg.”

“I do my best,” Bill laughed and stretched, throwing an arm over the back of Greg’s chair and leaning in closer to whisper conspiratorially as he nodded at Sherlock and his dancing partner. “So, which one of them are you mooning over?”

“I’m not _mooning_ ,” Greg protested stubbornly, pursing his lips.

“That was extremely convincing there, Captain Broody,” Bill snorted and flicked the crumpled-up label he’d peeled off his bottle at Greg’s face, blinking innocently when the other man turned to glare at him. “I don’t know you and your love life is none of my business, which won’t deter me in the slightest, just FYI. I’m only asking because the sassy blond is mine and you’re hot and I’d hate to have to punch you in the face. You know?”

It was Greg’s turn to blink, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times before he managed to produce actual sound with it. “You’re strange. No offense. But you are.”

Bill just waved his hand in what Greg interpreted as a ‘whatever’-gesture. “So. Wanna run your troubles by a complete stranger for some outside insight? Ha! That was amazingly terrible.”

Greg hesitated for a moment, then shut his eyes and shrugged. “He’s out of my league. Like, so far. Lightyears.”

“ _Sherlock?_ The man who spent all of John’s bachelor party texting what I’m assuming was you with the most lovestruck expression I’ve ever seen on anyone's face? Who keeps sneaking glances over here when he thinks we can’t see him? Who looked more confused than a dog failing to catch its own tail when I planted one on him-“

“ _Wait._ What?”

“The cheek, relax,” Bill waved away the interruption. “You should go dance with him, you know.”

Greg groaned pitifully. “People keep saying that.”

“Listen to the wisdom of the people, then!” Bill exclaimed dramatically, setting down his empty beer and snatching Greg’s instead. “And send my husband this way, I’m in dire need of some smooches.”

“Strange,” Greg repeated through a chuckle but obediently got up. “Thanks, though. I think.”

“Let me know how it goes, big boy,” Bill called after him, unbothered by the more than a few heads turning his way.

* * *

“-is horrible,” Greg heard Sherlock say when he approached, ridiculously flustered and rubbing his sweaty palms on his trousers.

“I know, right?” the other man moaned, shaking his head. “But William Trevor Trevor would have been so much worse. And what’s the point in marrying if you don’t join names?”

“Tax refunds? A Green Card? _Love?_ ” Sherlock deadpanned, smile growing impossibly wider once he spotted Greg who’d come to stand just a few feet away.

“Mind if I cut in?”

Sherlock’s friend whirled around at that, mouth falling open in a surprised O. “Please tell me you’re here for me?”

“Go away, Victor,” Sherlock sighed indulgently, simultaneous to Greg’s, “Your husband’s asking for you. He threw paper balls at me.”

Victor rolled his eyes in what looked like a well-practiced manner, briefly brushed his lips over Sherlock’s cheek and then walked off in the direction Greg had come from to join Strange Bill.

“Hi,” was all that occurred to Greg as he stepped in close, shooting a shy smile up at Sherlock and placing his hands on the detective’s hips.

Sherlock hummed, resting his own hands on either side of Greg’s neck, thumbs stroking slow, lazy circles over his flushed skin. “Hello.”

“Christ,” Greg murmured, Sherlock’s warm breath fanning over his face, “you have no idea how badly I want to kiss you right now.”

Sherlock quirked an inquisitive brow at him. “What do you need? A written invitation?”

Greg laughed shakily, casting his eyes around the room. “There are. Eh, there are a lot of people here. Sort of.”

For a dreadful moment, Sherlock seemed like he was going to pull away and Greg cursed himself. That had come out all wrong. But then Sherlock moved even closer instead, their noses brushing, and asked, barely a whisper, “Do you mind?”

And when Greg found the sense to shake his head, Sherlock erased the last distance between them and gently pressed their mouths together.

Mary whistled and Bill whooped.


End file.
